09/11/2025
I thought that when we move somewhere nobody knows us there’s a chance we get to reinvent ourselves.
Here in my new town:
I assumed I didn’t have to be the same
struggling poet who keeps writing about his unraveling heart in real time anymore.
Or the class clown who never grew up
Or a failed business owner
Or a heavy family name
Or a former journalist
Or a socially awkward neighbor
Or a disappointing son
Or a credit score that isn’t doing the limbo
Or a mid-life crisis in motion
Or a cautionary tale
Or… or… or…
I believed I could become someone wholly new.
Like a serious adult who quotes Russian literature at parties (in the original Russian).
Like a man who carries a business card that just says: “Solutions.”
Like someone who can charm a bank into a mortgage with a wink and a handwritten haiku.
Like a mysterious stranger who enters a room with the quiet confidence of a well-made casserole.
I thought I could trade in this wobbly van I’ve been driving for something that doesn’t wheeze every time I accelerate
toward a better version of myself.
Instead ~
It has come to my attention that it doesn’t matter how far away I move
~ the imperfections in
my soul come with me.
they tuck themselves into my suitcase,
mumble critiques while I’m brushing my teeth,
change the presets on the radio,
and laugh when I try to be normal.
For a while, I thought they were the reason I kept breaking down.
But lately,
I’ve started to suspect
something else:
maybe they’re not my baggage.
maybe they’re my inheritance.
maybe they’re the sacred scuff marks
that prove I’ve been trying.
The kind that leans in and says,
“I know you were hoping to become someone else ~ but, you’ve always been
slowly becoming something holy.”
“What do you consider holy?” I asked.
They laughed and said,
“You, darling. ALL of you.”
Then they rummaged
through my glovebox,
turned up the radio,
and started singing along
to a song I forgot I loved.
It was called
“Don’t Run From Yourself.”
(john roedel)
