I am a runner. In the physical sense—I train for and compete in ultra distance races on the regular and I wish it were socially acceptable to run everywhere I go rather than walk—and in a less literal sense in that I need to skip town as frequently as possible.

In an emotionally complex chain of events that I am only just now beginning to realize, contradictory to everything I am, I bought a house four years ago. I’m finding now that this decision was an attempt to anchor myself. I did it in my way—white girl from small town Nebraska buys a beautiful old house in North Omaha. Alone. That was no surprise, but in committing myself to this house, to Omaha, to Nebraska, places I am so desperately escaping each weekend, I’ve been in total rebellion with myself.

Let it be known, I wouldn’t consider myself a rebel. I’ve always, always been a good kid/employee/friend/partner/whatever. After I bought this house, I was promoted to management at my job. I loved my job. In contradiction to running away from things, however, I am stupid loyal. So when my boss said we need you to manage things, my loyalty said OK, I can do this. That meant more work hours, more on-call. I told myself mo money mo travel, but Biggie was right, mo money, mo problems.

I keep going and going, committed to my job and to my house and in the back of my head is this voice saying, fuck it all! Screw capitalism and social norms! Go live in a van in the forest! On bad days I think, yeah! I’m gone! But a voice deeper inside of me knows that this would be fun for maybe a month. Then I’d probably feel like a total piece of shit because the world is a shitty place and I have things to say and an able body to dedicate to some cause somewhere.

I spend a month getting my house ready to sell. The second to last week in September, I list my house and book a trip to Oregon the first week in October. I’m going to Oregon to volunteer with the National Parks Service I tell my friends, family, and clients. You’re such an inspiration, I want your life, they tell me. I shrug. If I were really that cool, I’d figure out a way to make travel and volunteering my life.

There were pretty horrible forest fires this fall in Oregon. I assume this means people will be jumping for joy to have volunteers. It actually means that everyone is so busy unless you are a volunteer firefighter, they don’t have time to deal with you. I call and email and email and call and finally, the day before I leave, Debra asks me if I’d like to collect thermographs with her in Umpqua National Forest. I have no idea what a thermograph is but fuck yeah, I’d like to do that! Deb is instantly my best friend.

I fly into Portland and get my rental car. This is supposed to be a story about rebellion so I’ll let you know that, contrary to great urging by the rental car guy, I refuse to pay for extra insurance. I want to tell him, dude, I’m so cheap I plan on sleeping in this Toyota Highlander while I live in the forest the next few days, but decide against it.

My first day in Oregon is to be spent with one of my closest childhood friends on her weed farm so that I can hang with her and her new baby. Her husband is deep in the throws of marijuana harvest. Again, I wish I could tell you I rebelled hard and smuggled a bunch of pot back, and got caught and my life were way more exciting, but it’s not, I’m not. Walking into their drying shed with workers trimming buds of 48 plants (each plant produces about 5 pounds of weed) and plants hanging from the ceiling was thrilling enough for me.

My friend reads tarot cards and her online business is booming. Her baby is beautiful and healthy. Her husband excitedly tells me about his business and my heart is so full of their happiness. We talk about the upcoming full moon—both the baby and I have a hard time sleeping with the full moon—and politics and these horrible new trends of women eating their placentas after birth and flat earthers. I tell them I’m selling my house, that I’m going to go down to part time at my job, that I don’t know what I’m going to do next. They tell me I’m an inspiration.

The next day I volunteer with Deb. She’s magnificent. We’re spending 9 hours together that day so I don’t want to step on her toes too much. We spend the first hour feeling each other out, skirting around politics until I finally tell her I guess part of the reason I’m volunteering with her is in response to a Trump presidency. Then we’re on a roll. She tells me about her first women’s march in the seventies and then marching on Washington in the nineties. We talk about being bleeding heart liberals in, my case a red state, in her case a red county. She tells me how much easier it would be to just move the 65 miles north to Eugene. I nod. I’ve thought this so many times. But instead I tell her to think how much more her voice means in a community that needs those voices of change. When I leave that evening, she hugs me and tells me I am an inspiration and to never give up the fight.

I have a two-hour drive to the coast, where I’m camping for the evening. I drive west to Humbug Mountain State Park, and on my way realize, I haven’t seen the sun set over the ocean since grad school—over three years—I’d like to get to the coast to watch the sunset. I speed. I weave through the mountains and my phone is dying and there are two radio stations that I can get in this area: Jeezy stuff or NPR. I love NPR, but when you are hauling through the mountains, chasing the sun, NPR isn’t exactly spurring you on in that race.

It’s pitch black by the time I make it to the ocean. I can hear it, smell it, see it in the full moon’s light, but I don’t see the sunset. I make camp in the back of the Highlander. I’ve nothing to do so I go to bed at 9 pm after sending my mom the I’m Alive text. Again, not a rebel.

The next morning I wake before the sun rises. I plan to have a full day of running—I want to do about twenty miles in two different parks so I need to get going. Before I’m ready to run, I walk through the campground toward the sound of the ocean. The sky is the most beautiful rainbow of pink, orange, and blue. Framed between two mountains is the moon. Instead of looking at the water then making my way back to camp to change and run, I sit down. I listen to the waves and watch the moonset and remember what my friend told me about the feminine moon eclipsing the male sun in a year that has seemed like women will fall three steps back. I have the beach all to myself and I think that it just might be an inspiring thing to love yourself enough that you’d fly halfway across the country to sit on a beach alone.