Aubrie Edmond

Last weekend, I went on my first long drive. It hadn’t hit me yet that I’d moved to California; it still hasn’t. When I was in high school, I was so adamant that I would never move to the West Coast. I had East Coast sensibilities, it’s where I belonged and I wouldn’t budge. It still hits me how little time has passed since then. It’s only been three years, but looking back, I can hardly recognize myself. That adolescent contrarianism has waned, along with the bullish confidence in my convictions. Sometimes I miss my naivete, that blind faith that I could have whatever I wanted, be whoever I wanted. 

I drove for four and a half hours through NorCal, listening to all my favorite songs and chasing that feeling. I’ve found that there’s a certain kind of nostalgia for the bad times. In hindsight, the low points really weren’t that low. I look back at those times fondly now, and I try to forgive myself for the things I cannot change. I think a lot about finality, the gravity of all my decisions compounding and cementing. I can’t fathom the future, the fact that most of my life has not even happened yet, that sinking feeling that I still have so many more mistakes to make.

I’m tired of the things I can’t change, and I’m tired of dwelling on everything but the present. That’s why I like driving. I just got my license six months ago, years after everyone else I know. I never thought that it could be this fun, this freeing. When I’m driving, I can’t worry about anything that isn’t right in front of me. My mind finally feels quiet, staring at the brake lights of the car in front of me, the white lane markers, and feeling the road beneath my feet.

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