I spent last weekend in Arizona, visiting my sister. Driving back to the airport my Lyft driver asked me the simplest of questions– where was I headed? My mind became a long blur– because although of course I knew the answer,  I didn’t perceive it to be the answer my driver would expect or find ease in hearing. Sure enough in the 20 minute ride all of the questions ensued. Wyoming?! Was I the first person he’d ever met that lived in Wyoming? Why did I live there? Was it for cheap land? Or a sense of quiet? Was it near the “super volcano”?

So these 20 minutes almost made me contemplate– would it have been easier just to lie? To still cite home as Chicago, or maybe Denver, or another city that to most people “makes sense”. I do still feel this way, I admit. The urge to write a story, lead a life that “makes sense”.

Even when I’m in Jackson, amongst the community which so understands and believes in living here, I feel this way. Because if the multiple choice reasons for being in Jackson are…

a) to ski (or partake in other extreme adventure)
b) because I followed someone here
c) because I got a job here

… I am
d) none of the above.

Why is it so important to us to “make sense”? To strive for a straight arrow, a yellow brick road, a single and permanent identity. As if anything less would be an admission that we haven’t always had it all figured out. Or we don’t currently have it all figured out. Or our path to figuring it out doesn’t share a trailhead with everybody else.

But– I’m glad I didn’t lie to my Lyft driver. What use is it to deny your true self, even to a person you’ll likely never meet again?

Moment of Gratitude: We are not meant to be the editors of our lives, we’re merely meant to be the authors. Don’t let anyone– especially yourself– take your story and make it false. It could never be false. You lived it, you are living it. Its true.