By the time you read this, I’ll be stepping off a plane in Puerto Rico — that strange, liminal moment when the cabin door opens and the air hits you with a vacation vibe that doesn’t match the run-run-run vibe you left behind. It always feels like crossing an invisible threshold, like the universe quietly rotating the map and saying, here try facing this direction for a bit.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about signposts this week — the ones we notice, the ones we ignore, and the ones we pretend aren’t meant for us even though they’re basically flashing like a Vegas marquee.
Lately, my life has been full of these subtle little directional markers. Signs pointing toward truths I’ve been skirting around. A conversation that leaves a strange aftertaste. A plan that keeps falling through no matter how tightly I grip it. A sudden sense of relief when something ends. These aren’t accidents; they’re signposts. And they’re usually more honest than whatever story I’m telling myself.
This past week, the signs have been unmistakable. They’re pointing toward release. Toward truth. Toward the quiet, steady knowing that I don’t have to carry what was never mine. There’s a sense of peace in that — a gentle internal nod that says in my best Pedro Pascal as the Mandalorian voice, “Yes. This is the way.”
So here’s where I am today: somewhere between departure and arrival, shedding and becoming, the old map and the new terrain. Somewhere in the sky between Orlando and San Juan, trusting that the next signpost will make itself known when I’m close enough to see it.
Now if only Bad Bunny would finally read my texts saying we will be in his neighborhood… 🙂