January 16, 2014:

It was Delta 220—Denver to New York, via Minneapolis—the return leg of a roundtrip ticket spent in Vail with my parents over Christmas. I never even went to the airport, because some weeks back I had gone in and quit my job in Brooklyn and had started telling everyone I knew I was moving to the mountains of Colorado to write. I told Bill, my postman, and Larry, my building maintenance man. I told my coworkers and my friends, and of course my parents. And I told myself—again and again until it became true.

Mine is a very privileged person’s idea of bravery. With the ado of the New Year and my 31st birthday come and gone, I’ve upgraded from 550-square-feet of Manhattan apartment space to many thousands, with window-lined views and a number of quiet rooms. And yet, I’ve traded a coastline filled with family and hard-won friends (within driving distance) for a town of unfamiliar faces.

While the next time I send correspondence let’s hope it begins with a paragraph of printable prose, in the meantime I’m living by two pieces of advice. The first, born from the need to gather material and make new friends, is to say yes to every offer—even when the ache in my stomach says no; even if it sends me backward-tumbling down a white powder mountain slope (because, no, I don’t really know how to ski). And second, as was written in a birthday card from one of my best friends, repeat this every day: I promise myself to be so strong that nothing can disturb my peace of mind.

by Abigail Ronck, from Diamonds in the Dustheap

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