A chosen parent of mine from Virginia sent me a donation recently. And then she asked a question. The kind of question that used to send me into a spiral.

"Are you happier and/or more comfortable where you live now?"

In the past, I would have felt the need to write a 500-word email, get frustrated with the long distance vulnerability explaining my life to one person, and feel drained and exposed.

But now I have a blog.

So I'm answering her here. Out loud. For anyone who's ever wondered the same thing.

The Short Answer: My life is difficult. But it's my life. And I built it brick by brick.

The Long Answer:

Everything that used to be in my life ten years ago is gone. I've lost everything.

My bridges with my family have burned to the ground. I don't have a way to visit Virginia anymore—no place to sleep, no open doors. I'm not in contact with any of my old friends. They don't reach out. Neither do I.

My life wasn't disposable. But everything I lost has been replaced.

What I Have Now

I have a part-time job with about a hundred children who adore me. And I adore them. I get to be part of their lives every day, even if just for a few hours.

I've been part of a food project in this town since they started, ten years ago. I know what it means to feed people and be fed.

I have a small rental. A faith community that knows my name. I stay busy.

I make apple chips half the year. I have a small following. People eat my snacks and smile.

I get invited to things. A college production of Cabaret this weekend. A radio interview sometime soon. Little sparks of being seen.

There's a lot of great in my life. I don't want to undermine that.

What I Also Have

About a year and a half ago, a natural disaster hit our region. We are still recovering. Some of us never will.

I live in a city that ICE has targeted. My neighborhood isn't majority English-speaking. People are scared. I am scared.

I've had so much death around me this past year. Friends. Acquaintances. People I tried to help. People I couldn't.

I live in a tourist economy that is incredibly exploitative. I can't afford groceries. I'm medically uninsured. My rent, with everything included, is 150% of my income this month.

My dog was hit by a car the week before the storm. I have to walk by that spot every single day.

The last two people I lived with were unhoused, in some stage of substance use or recovery, and emotionally volatile. I loved them anyway. It cost me.

Half the week, I'm housing a single mother and her 13-year-old son. They sleep in my living room. I sleep in my bedroom. We are all trying to survive.

So, Am I Happier?

I don't know if "happier" is the right word.

I am more myself than I've ever been. I am more honest. More tired. More grateful. More angry. More alive.

I am not comfortable. Comfort is not the goal anymore.

The goal is to stay. To keep building. To let the old life burn and not pretend I miss it.

What I Want You to Know

If you asked this question because you care about me—thank you. I know you do.

If you asked because you're wondering about your own life—whether you're happier than you were, whether the trade-offs were worth it—I can't answer that for you.

What I can say is: I don't regret leaving.

I don't regret staying.

I regret nothing except the time I spent pretending I was fine when I wasn't.

So here's the truth. Messy. Long. Uncomfortable.

This is my life. I built it. And I'm still here.