I stepped onto my first solo flight to visit one of my best friends in Reno, Nevada when I was 18. Although I had been traveling around the country with my family nearly my entire life, this trip was different. I was going to spend five days in the west on a trip I had planned and packed for myself, which was blatantly obvious with my two FULL checked bags, one giant carry on “purse,” and an arm full of metal bangles because I was cool like that. When my stepmother asked me why in the hell I was packing so much, I replied with, “I get to be anyone I want to be.” By God, I packed enough to be seven different people every single day. She just shook her head and laughed, and rightfully so.
One could assume that because I had the privilege of living and working in a manor house (for the love of all things holy, Harlaxton is NOT a castle) in the United Kingdom for four months, traveled nearly every weekend and found love along the way, that my life may as well be written in some Disney fairytale book, right?
*Insert eye roll, giggles, and maybe a little knee slap.*