A lot of folks were really surprised when I told them I’d be living out in such a seemingly opposite place to Chicago. More folks, still, told me of the harmony I lived in with my neighborhood of Old Town, and, I agree. I loved/love my apartment, the narrow brick sidewalks, the farmer’s market, the art fair, the architecture, the florists, the lake. Its a magical place. But that’s where it became a shorter leap, to me, to live in Jackson Hole. A place overflowing with its own breed of magic.

But still I’ve spent a lot of time worrying, incessantly worrying, about how I would or would not fit into certain Wyoming archetypes. I’m the first to admit that I’m not an extreme outdoor adventurer, a great skier, a cowboy, a celebrity (LOL def not) or whatever other Jackson Hole personas come to mind. But I wasn’t your typical city girl either, especially when it came to the millennial hustle of the bar scene. So you could say that whatever hours I’ll spend here worrying that I don’t fit in, I’ve already clocked a matching set of the same worries in Chicago.

And having realized that truth– where does a person really belong? Probably a lot more places than we think we do. The things the truly define us could never be condensed to a geographic radius. We take them with us– in as significant ways as our passions, and in as seemingly insignificant ways as our sense of style (except for the pink Lady Gaga Joanne hat I scored at Target just before leaving– that was not insignificant).

I recently read this awesome quote from Elizabeth Gilbert “There’s not one creative thing I have ever done that doesn’t begin with my doing something I have no business doing”.

So here I am– designer, handletterer, singer/guitarist, new blogger, nature lover, first person to uphold their Sephora VIB status via a Wilson, Wyoming P.O. Box.

Moment of Gratitude: Grateful that you, me, all of us, will always be ourselves. We could never not be.