Last day of work. Last weekend at home. Last box packed.
My students left two gift bags on my desk this morning. I held it together — barely. Teaching has been one of the more quietly fulfilling things I’ve done, and watching people figure out who they are is a privilege I didn’t fully appreciate until I was walking away from it.
The movers were something to witness. Four men at full speed. Thomas looked slightly dazed by the end. My daughter’s coat, hung neatly by the door, is now on its way to the Arctic. I’ll ship it back when I find it.
The goodbyes are the hardest part. I tear up every time I talk to the kids, and I’ve stopped apologizing for it. I feel things strongly — always have. It took me a long time to understand that emotional intensity isn’t a character flaw. It’s part of how I’m wired. The same sensitivity that makes leaving hard is also what makes me good at the things I care about.
Leaving is a choice. It’s the right one. And it still costs something. All three of those things can be true at the same time.
Monday morning. The Arctic.