What It Means to Live the Questions

Honest reflections inside the messiness of a transition

I’m sitting in my empty apartment in Mexico City. My suitcase is packed and waiting by the door. In two hours, I’ll be in an Uber, heading to the airport and flying to Portugal.

With just enough time for a 90-minute flow session, I opened my laptop — planning to outline Module 3 of Pathway to Purpose. But all morning, as I ran last-minute errands, my body has been churning with unprocessed emotions. So instead of doing the “productive” thing, I decided to spend this time writing from my heart.

Maybe it will help me make sense of all the complex feelings coming up as I make this transition.

How am I feeling…? I kind of don’t know.

All week, people have been asking me, “How do you feel about leaving?”
And honestly… I haven’t known how to answer.

It feels complex.

Mentally, there’s a flicker of excitement about what’s next. I’m making plans to meet up with friends across Europe. There’s so much to look forward to.

But, my body isn’t quite there yet.

Right now, what I feel most is sadness.
Every time I hug someone goodbye, I don’t want to let go.

Even though I know we’ll stay in touch, there’s still a sense of loss — a quiet grief that this exact chapter of my life is ending. That the version of life I’ve been living — the rituals, the people, the rhythm — won’t exist in quite the same way again.

I walked through Parque México this morning and felt the urge to lie down and hug the sidewalk. As if pressing my body to the ground might help me cement this moment into my being forever.

As I packed up my apartment, a wave of disorientation hit.
Untethered. Unanchored.
It started to register in my nervous system: when I leave here, I don’t have a home. I’m moving into my suitcase.

And that realization hit me like a wave of vertigo. Making me dizzy.
Like a top spinning across time zones, unsure of where I land.

Last night, just before bed, I even had a moment of what if I canceled everything?
They haven’t rented out my apartment yet.
What if I just stayed?

And yet — underneath all of this emotion, there’s a deeper knowing that it’s still right.
I didn’t force this journey to Portugal. It didn’t come from my mind.
It came from intuition.
It flowed so easily — from the flights to the apartment to the friends I’ll see when I land.
Some part of me knows: this is the next right thing.

So why does it feel so complicated?

My mind wants a story- to make it all make sense.

I’ve noticed my mind reaching for a story — a way to make sense of this swirl.
It wants to label what I’m feeling.
It wants to wrap it all up in a tidy narrative.

Is the story that I am not someone who is meant to stay in one place all year?

That I’m somehow nomadic in my DNA?

I’ve tried this one on in a few conversations lately- sharing my new theory of “seasonal hyperfixation”. That I want to live my life in segments.

Like we did during school: spring semester, summer and fall semester. Built-in transitions that created natural punctuation marks in time. Maybe I’m wired for that kind of rhythm.

Because when I got back to Mexico in December after my Asia trip — and had no international travel plans on the horizon — I initially felt relief.

But after a month or so, it turned into a lull.
The way I’ve been describing it is: it felt like staring down the barrel of one long middle.

A stretch of sameness with no end in sight. One week bleeding into the next. And while there were still elements of variety- there was something unsettling about the thought… “is this just my life now”?

What’s tricky is that there were plenty of parts of that “middle” that I genuinely loved.

“Chels and Chats” on Tuesdays. Thursday night dinners with deep chats. Fitpass classes. Cold plunges. Saunas. Weekend hikes. Bachata in the park. Coworking with friends.

So many of those rituals were nourishing and wonderful.

I did feel real fulfillment.
In my work.
In my friendships.
In my rhythm.

And still… there was this underlying hum of restlessness.
A part of me that couldn’t fully accept that: this is it- this is just my life now.

So… what is that??

All the questions that have been circling

Is it just the detox of having lived such an extraordinary, fast-moving life — that now, anything normal feels like a comedown?

Is it a pathologic chasing of dopamine?

Am I just not meditating enough?

Not doing enough gratitude to anchor into presence and actually appreciate the beauty of my everyday life.

Maybe what I need is learn how to feel fully alive in stillness.

Or maybe… this is part of who I am.

Maybe it’s not a problem that I want to move around.

Maybe I’m not meant to stay in one place all year.
Maybe my natural rhythm is seasonal. Nomadic.
Maybe I thrive in motion.

The thing about being a nomad is — it’s really easy to solve your problems by booking a flight.

And so I am always checking in to see…
Am I running from something?
Or am I running toward the life I actually want?
Am I chasing novelty to avoid discomfort?
Or honoring the truth that I come alive when I’m living seasonally?

Can I even tell the difference?

I don’t know.

And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe I don’t need the story wrapped up in a bow just yet.

Maybe for now, it’s enough to ask the questions from a place of radical self honesty.

What actually makes a good life?

I’ve started bringing this up in conversations with friends.

Asking questions like… “How do you feel in the day to day of your life? What does a typical week look like for you? Are you content with it? Do you crave more?”

One of my friends said something that’s stuck with me.
She told me she’s learned to be comfortable with the middle.

She looks at her week and asks:
If this were my Groundhog Day week — if I had to live this exact week over and over again — would I feel content? Would it be sustainable?

Not from a perfectionist lens.
Not from a place of needing to make it the “best week ever.”
But just… could I live here? Could I breathe here?

It reminded me of that quote:

How we live our days is how we live our lives.
I think it applies to weeks, too.
How we live our weeks is how we live our lives.

I really like this thought.

It’s a grounding lens — a way to check:
Am I prioritizing what matters?
Am I spending my time in a way that feels aligned with who I want to be and how I want to live?

But if I’m being honest… the idea of one week on repeat forever also feels stifling.

So what if the truth of it all- is more nuanced and complex.

Maybe the truth is more complex

What if the real life I want… includes both?

Appreciating the ordinary, and chasing the extraordinary.

Grounding into seasons of routine. And honoring my restless heart’s drive towards chaos.

Maybe these two drives are not mutually exclusive.

Maybe I’m not supposed to “solve” the restlessness with mindfulness.

Maybe it’s not a problem to fix- but a part of me to honor.

Because I do want to continue practicing stillness. Learning how to settle into the middle.
And I also want to follow my pull towards more. Allow myself to experience new beginnings without pathologizing it.

Maybe it’s not either/ or. It’s learning to sit in the tension.

The desire to be fully here — and still have this drive towards more.
To live with reverence for now and continue reaching toward what’s unfolding.

So as much as my mind wants a conclusion. I don’t have one right now. I’m just sitting here in the messy middle living the questions. Letting that be enough. And now … I’ve gotta call my Uber and head to the airport. I’ve got a flight to catch and a new beginning waiting for me.

XO, Coach Chels