In exactly one week I’ll be sitting on a plane, coasting 30,000 feet up and saying goodbye to this little corner of the world that I call home.
I’m excited – thrilled, even – but I can’t pretend I don’t have moments of crazy self-doubt. But I guess that’s normal; true crazy would be putting an ocean between everything you know and love and pretending it’s not a big deal. It is a big deal, and I’m scared.
But I know I can do it, and I know there’s an adventure waiting for me on the other side.
I have one week. 7 more days to cuddle with my fur babies, get sand between my toes, buy overpriced produce at Whole Paycheck. 7 more days to be Kirsten in Manhattan Beach, before I’m Kirsten in Copenhagen.
7 more days of cuddles and snuggles and puppy snores.
And don’t even get me started on my little burrito angel.
I’m going to miss her. I’m going to miss my family. I’m going to miss everything (that isn’t, you know, the 405). But it’s time to make some big changes, pick up these roots, and let them grow somewhere new for a while. I’m ready. Or, almost. If you don’t take into account the fact that I haven’t actually started packing.
That’s what next week is for.