The Tube

a poem

poetic musings

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ink on paper by the author

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Just weeks before I moved to the UK in 2008 to embark on an MA in creative writing, an old family friend expressed how brave I was, said she couldn’t imagine doing anything like it, especially solo, and asked how I felt.

Terrified, I answered.

Mom said, And excited, and then looked at me, Right?

I muttered something to appease whatever prevented her from allowing me to be where I was at in that moment, which was beside myself with the unknown, all the little logistical tasks that needed doing before I left, the money that needed to be earned between two jobs that were pushing my burnout limits to the absolute edge, saying goodbye to everything and one that was familiar, clearing out my apartment, packing, entering into routinelessness, and then getting on a plane to land abruptly in a new life where the only person I knew was a woman I’d met for about five minutes that summer through my great uncle and aunt.

Those who’ve done it, you know: it’s terrifying, thrilling, confronting, lonely, exhilarating, harrowing, challenging, and makes us so so alive. It’s often the best decision we ever make for ourselves.

But throughout that year, I was confronted with so many parts of myself I hadn’t had to look at before. Deep feelings of loneliness and skin hunger reveal themselves in my writing. Eventually, I understand now, my nervous system began to regulate and my trauma heal, but it was a long way to go to get back home to myself.