SEVEN YEARS LATER

I moved here seven years ago.

A few weeks back, I was in Downtown Seattle to attend a conference. My commute—now infrequent due to pandemic-induced remote work—was a lengthy and brisk bus ride in the morning darkness, but it felt energizing to be back in the city. 

I got off the bus and began my ascent up Pike Street as the sunrise poked through glass towers and onto the morning commute rush. Professionals in business attire and branded lanyards began walking alongside me, and quickly in greater numbers as I neared the Convention Center. Waiting at a crosswalk, I checked my reflection off of a nearby window and, unexpectedly flummoxed, saw that I was—am—one of them.

I recalled the image of me seven years prior as a lonely newcomer in the city. I remembered walking this same route and feeling like a small and anonymous part of this new place that I decided to call home, haunted by the omnipresent darkness that came with the season’s change. Everything seemed new and foreign: street names and buildings were placeless; a strata of the city was out of my financial and social reach. I was desperate for a steady job and eager to build a life for myself. I hypothesized about the lives of the employed and established people that I saw walking around me, hoping to join them one day.

And in seemingly the blink of an eye, I have. After seven years on a meandering path paved with the intrinsic values that have guided me throughout my twenties, an unexpected career boom led me back to these streets where I aspired for more. The crossing signal changed and I continued walking alongside the morning commuters—this time as part of the ensemble, not as a spectator.

At the closing conference reception, I struck up a conversation with a gentleman who asked me about my move from Michigan to Seattle. I thought about the dizzying depths of the seven-year trajectory that led me to this reception, and how I used to struggle articulating the why and how of this big life decision while its consequences were still unraveling. How fortunate I am to look back at it all now with a grateful sigh of relief. 

I took a sip of my drink and smiled. Oh, I tell him, that’s a great story.