I signed the dotted line and the next few months were a chaotic mess of fear, numbness and denial mixed with the excitement of possibility. The idea of uprooting my life in such a big way seemed like pure fiction. How could I possibly be the protagonist of such a crazy adventure where one rids themselves of all their worldly possessions, says goodbye to friends and family, their favorite creature comforts; and moves to a private island for the next two years of her life?
What didn’t feel good about living alone was the chronic loneliness. I didn’t realize how pitiful “me, myself and I” could feel; especially without any diversion from my own negativity. What was wrong with me? Why did life still feel so bleak? I had made so much progress since the startling realization that I was 38, single, homeless and without a plan.
