This month, September, 2017, marks my sixth month in Eugene. The halfway point of my experiment. Have I mentioned that I was giving myself a year? A year to see if this is a good fit, a year to find happiness and prosperity and friends, a year to get used to the place, a year to learn where all the good neighborhoods are in case I buy or rent a house.
At the end of July, I took a trip back east. I went on vacation in New England, and then made a whirlwind trip back to Virginia where I packed my days solidly with seeing friends and family. I questioned the wisdom of this decision. I was still barely adjusting to life on the west coast, and my lip had finally stopped trembling from missing my tribe. Now I was going to willingly put myself in the position of having to say goodbye to them all AGAIN.
But it was a good trip, if rushed. I visited my old church and tried not to cry (too much) just from the familiarity of it all, not to mention the hugs from friends. In our church back home, we sometimes have a time for "polylog," which is an opportunity for the congregation to comment on or share additional information relating to the sermon. The sermon that day had been done by my friend's daughter, and it was entitled, "Making Good Choices." During polylog, a woman spoke about having made the choice to move far from family and friends, and had been miserable, and desperate to come home. But somehow, at the six-month mark, things turned around and she'd found herself glad she'd made the change.
I share this because I am about to admit something. I have been kind of sad and bummed out since I got home from that trip. It emphasized for me how much I missed my friends, and my return to Eugene felt lonelier than ever. I had not yet found my tribe here, and it was beginning to wear on me. I was exhausted from "putting myself out there," looking for both friends and business. I missed having girlfriends to laugh with and cry with, and familiar friends and family to get hugs from. I realized my cat was my only source of cuddling and touch. I started to question my decision. I started to say things like, "Well, I can always go somewhere else when this year is up," or "If I don't like it, there's no rule that says I can't go back to Virginia."
My friends, who felt sorry for me, would offer me that out frequently. "You can come back! We miss you!" Or "Move to Philly! We'd love to have you here!" But these kind-intentioned words only made me feel more miserable, as if I were failing at being here.
I even started to think maybe something was inherently wrong with me. Maybe I can't make any friends because I'm not that likable. Maybe my old friends like me, or put up with me, because we've just known each other so long. What's going on? Why haven't I connected with anyone? Yes, I had acquaintances and people I saw regularly in my various memberships to groups. But no one was calling me to hang out, and I was starting to get afraid of rejection when I'd instigate.
In short, I was depressed.
But I recalled what the woman in church said, and thought maybe, just maybe, if I hold on a little longer, it will start to make sense. I'll start to feel comfortable. I'll meet my new tribe. I'll start thinking of Eugene as home.
Well, here it is September. My sixth month here. And admittedly, just this past week, things have started looking up...just a little. I've met a few people I actually feel like are "my people," in terms of energy and conversational topics and warmth level. I got invited to the movies, to a cookout, to carpool to an Arbonne meeting, and to go yoga paddleboarding. I began working in earnest through both my new church and my Toastmasters club on membership duties, helping other new people feel welcome.
I don't know if Eugene is my forever home. I don't know what the next six months have in store for me. But I do feel a shift, a slight altering of the balance between "this sucks" and "this is cool." I'm cautiously excited about making new friends, and I don't feel quite the same dark shadow of lack of connection to people and the community that I felt even a few weeks ago. I found hope where I was doubting there was any to be found. And I held on long enough to see the tide turn, if even a little. And for that, I'm proud of myself, and grateful as well.
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