The Art of Running—And Finally Learning to Rest

Some people are meant to always be running. Running toward the next opportunity, idea, apartment, lover—never quite stopping long enough to feel like they’ve truly arrived.

For the last ten years, I have moved ten times. That’s a lot for someone who just turned 27. But this pattern isn’t new. I’ve been moving, both physically and emotionally, for as long as I can remember.

I used to think that if I could just find the right place, the right people, the right version of myself, I would finally feel at home. But what I’ve come to realize is that sometimes, we don’t run because we’re lost. We run because we’re searching for something we can’t quite name.

Searching for Home

When I was younger, my family moved a few times, but it wasn’t until I was 16 that I experienced the kind of move that changes everything. Except this time, it wasn’t my parents’ decision—it was mine.

At 16, I chose to uproot my life. I switched schools, left behind the familiar, and broke up with my then-boyfriend. At an age when most people are just trying to get through high school, I had to decide whether my entire family would move. And as much as I told myself I had made the right choice, I had no idea what it really meant to start over.

High school was hard. Being the new girl was hard. I kept waiting to feel settled, to feel like I had made the right choice. But instead, I felt like I was running. Running from the ghosts of my past, from the versions of myself I didn’t want to be, and from the fear that I would never truly belong anywhere.

I carried that feeling with me for years. Through college, through every apartment, every job, every decision. I was always searching for home.

And then, for a moment, I thought I had found it.

Chasing Friendship, Losing Myself

When I moved to Colorado, something shifted. Maybe it was the mountains, maybe it was the independence of starting my master’s program, or maybe I was just exhausted from the search—but for the first time in years, I felt like I belonged.

And then, I left.

I didn’t leave because I wanted to—I left because I was chasing something else. I was chasing connection, searching for my people. I kept telling myself that home isn’t just a place; it’s the people you surround yourself with. And for so long, I felt like I was the only one who didn’t have “their person.”

I remember calling my mom, crying, telling her that everyone in my life had someone. A best friend. A partner. A person to turn to in the middle of the night when things fell apart. And I felt like I was always on the outside looking in.

And then, in January of 2023, I found my best friend.

She was everything I had been searching for—someone who understood me, who made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t before. For a year and a half, I thought I had finally found the missing piece. And then, just as quickly as she arrived, she was gone.

A single trip. A moment of realization. And suddenly, the person I had built my world around was no longer there.

It took me months to recover. Months to process that the deepest heartbreaks don’t always come from romantic relationships. Sometimes, the worst breakups are the ones that don’t come with closure.

But through the pain, I learned something. I had spent years chasing friendships built around convenience—shared hobbies, surface-level connections, fleeting moments. But real, lasting friendships? They’re built on something much deeper. And that’s what I’m learning to focus on now.

The Cost of Running

I don’t regret moving to Washington. I don’t regret taking the job at Boeing, even though I now see that I left Colorado before I was ready.

I left because I was struggling at work, and instead of standing up for myself, I chose the easy way out—I ran. I didn’t want to have the uncomfortable conversation with my supervisor. I didn’t want to admit that the path I was on wasn’t the one I wanted.

So, I did what I had always done. I packed my bags, found a new opportunity, and told myself that this time, things would be different.

But the truth is, running only works for so long. Eventually, the patterns catch up with you. Eventually, you have to stop and ask yourself:

What am I really searching for?

Learning to Rest

I just moved again. My tenth move in ten years. But this time, it feels different.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the need to run. I don’t feel the urge to search for something better, something more.

I feel like I can breathe.

At 27, I’ve realized that a lot of people don’t really know me. And I blame myself. I spent so long trying to build friendships around activities and events—things that were easy to walk away from. Because if they weren’t built on deep conversations and shared struggles, then they weren’t real enough to hurt when they ended.

But that’s not the kind of life I want to build anymore.

I want to slow down. I want to rest. I want to stop searching for home in places and people that were never meant to hold it.

Because at some point, you have to stop running long enough to see who stays.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where home has been all along.