I drop Rob off at his office on my way to the barre studio most mornings, and nothing was different about Tuesday until I had to slow down suddenly and the car behind us came barreling through, crashing into us and throwing our car forward violently before stopping in its tracks. 

As it was happening I felt suddenly and completely alone, trying to comprehend what was going on and wondering where the sharp pain in my arm was coming from. I didn't know what to do; what had taken place. And then his hand reached for me and I heard his voice snatch me out of the blackness. "Are you okay? Pull over here. Turn on the hazard lights. Stay right there, I'll be back."

And then an hour or two of firefighters stopping by and EMTs asking if we needed to see a doctor, police questions and notes taken down hastily and a wrecker picking up the car that had hit us, which was no longer drive-able. Our bumper hung loose from a corner of the back of our own car and the man driving the truck ripped it off and helped us get it in the trunk and we were able to drive it away.

So there we were, together; my hand in his and the receptionist at urgent care leaning forward from her desk to ask us for our insurance information--"Mr. and Mrs. Peterson?" 

It's really rare that we're referred to as Mr. and Mrs. Anything--and really not since our wedding. This was certainly the first time it was uttered under any sort of emergency--not an oh my gosh congratulations, Mrs. Peterson situation but instead the doctor will see you now, Mrs. Peterson.

And I remember thinking right then and there that I wanted to hold on to these memories: of my headache in the waiting area, the way the walls spun around me as we sat in an exam room while the doctor made her rounds through an understaffed facility, of his aching body lying next to my aching body while I fell asleep earlier that afternoon, bruised and sore but safe in his arms. 

Because we said "for better or for worse" when we stood in front of our family and friends that sunny evening in May, promising our lives to one another and vowing to be there until the end. And that wasn't the end--not even close--but life can throw some crazy things at you and even when you walk away mostly unharmed, there is all sorts of magic and strength in having someone you love to lean on throughout it all. 

“Wherever you go, I will go. Wherever you live, I will live. Your people shall be my people. Wherever you die, I will die and be buried beside you. We shall be together forever and our love will be the gift of our lives.”

— The Book of Ruth (1:16)

This morning I'm headed to Charlottesville, Virginia for a couple days to visit my friend Patrick before he moves to Connecticut for a new job and to be reunited with his husband after a year of long-distance.

Charlottesville is such a special place to so many people I love--it was Patrick's home for ten years, where he met Chad and started a life together with him; it was where Shawna took a post-bac program before med school; it was where Rob and I first really lived together, on our own; and it was where I went through what I look back on now as one of the hardest times of my life--getting over the death of a childhood friend, dealing with depression and anxiety, modifying my diet in a life-changing way, finishing graduate school, wondering what could possibly be next.

But it was also one of the best times of my life--morning trail runs with my best friend, followed by farmer's markets or big pitchers of mimosas, afternoons spent paging through the University of Virginia's gorgeous libraries, living across the street from Patrick and Chad, working at a sweet little coffee shop, coming to the beautiful realization that Rob was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

And then, suddenly, it was time to go. We packed up our stuff and I dropped Rob off at the airport for a month-long school trip to China before a six-month stint training for his new job in DC. I headed back to my parents' house on the lake with no real plans for anything; missing Rob, missing Charlottesville, with no clear vision of the fun and amazing and love-filled life that was in store for us.

Lately I've been thinking about all the other "ends" in my life--some sad, some happy, some both--that were really just wonderful beginnings: The end of long-distance when I finally joined Rob in Minneapolis. My last day at a job I really thought I needed. The end of our time in Minnesota. And so many others. Almost nothing lasts forever--but your heart can break and mend and grow more than you ever thought possible.

"There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind." --C.S. Lewis

Overwhelm. Having it all. Working hard, working from home, making dinner, cleaning up, all things entrepreneurial. Podcasts, blog posts, articles about meditation. The strange, thin line that lies between self-employment and unemployment. It's all I think about lately. I told Rob the other day that between blogging and freelance work, I'm making more money than I have in the past, but I feel unsatisfied in some way. Obviously money is not everything, but it is something. Either way, I love what I do but sometimes it feels like something's been missing.

Last week I drove through the city on a weekday morning and felt nothing but jealousy as I saw women in pencil skirts walking down the sidewalk together, with bags on their arms and Starbucks cups in their hands. And yet, when that was me, I dreamed of working for myself--of a big white desk in my apartment and a life where I got eight hours of sleep and cooked and made it to they gym every day no matter what. The grass is greener on the other side, some say; and others tell you that no, the grass is greener where you water it. I have found that both of them are true, but it's impossible to water your own grass when you can't stop staring at the neighbor's.

Here's a thing I've never said before: Sometimes being a lifestyle blogger feels really stupid. You write about everything and in doing that, you're almost always alienating one reader from the others. This person likes you because they want recipes. This person wants you to write. This person wants more style posts! And this person understands why you do sponsored posts, but wishes you wouldn't. And I'm over here, somehow trying to do all of it, but not always doing a very good job at any of it.

But Freckled Italian was born out of a desire to write.

And I'm trying to find a way back to that.

I walked along the beach last weekend by myself--barefoot, listening to the waves, waving at black labs and golden retrievers busy chasing frisbees, smiling at young dads up early to set up umbrellas for their new families--and I thought, this is what they're talking about when they say everyone needs time to recharge, reset, reconnect. To stand in shallow water, watching the tide come in. To ignore your phone, leave your laptop at home, and laugh until your sides ache with friends. To have a couple glasses of wine and face your fear of the ocean--to dive under the breaking waves and feel more accomplishment about that simple feat than you have in months. To simply slow down.

“Allow the luxury of time, dreaming out the window, a little noodle walk through a dime store...

I know more but I don’t push it because there are things I don’t know that I want to come to me. I’m calling up understanding beyond myself. If I get too determined, to linear, I’ll miss the tugs of intuition at the periphery of my perceptions, the things I don’t want to say, the things I have never said, these things that enrich the writing.”

— Natalie Goldberg, "Old Friend from Far Away"

I've written about this exact same thing multiple times, but most recently here. I feel like I finally might be getting somewhere. But, like most things in life, it just takes time. And, I guess, a trip to the beach.