Running Into Myself— Sagittarius Logic: Escape to Become

18 yr old Olive in Boulder, CO, 2015

When I was in middle school, I had this HIGH energy that feels almost unrecognizable to me today. It somewhat carried its way into high school, but by the time I reached the end, it had started to dwindle. Growing up, I lived in a household where I had to suppress that energy, so in a way, I like to think that I saved it up for the moments when I was away from there.

A big part of me felt like I had to keep up with the high energy—or else I was met with a lot of "what's wrong?'s." And if I didn't, at times, I felt like a phony. By the time I was eighteen year, I wanted so badly to quiet down, but I didn't think I could when people already "knew" me as that hyper version of myself. It felt like a new personality was trying to come out, but I was under this impression that no one would buy the switch up that would be so unfamiliar to them. Looking back now, that feels heartbreaking.

The spring of my senior year, I started reaching out to different universities for information. I swear—completely swear that I do not recall ever requesting information from schools in Colorado, let alone the university I ended up attending. Yet there it was: a pamphlet for a Buddhist university tucked in the foothills of Boulder. Out of every glossy folder and tri-fold I received, my mind never left that little school.

For as long as I could remember, I wanted to leave the area I grew up in. In fact, I couldn't wait to get out. I was sure there was something bigger, better, more alive than what I had known. But there were problems here too, things I should've faced. Instead, just. a few weeks later, I was in the car, headed west.

That's when I think about that idea—this notion people love to repeat: you can't run from your problem, you only end up running into yourself.

And that's where they're wrong.

When I got to Boulder, I felt like I could breathe—really breathe—for the first time in my life. I was eighteen, alone, completely unknown. No one there carried a version of me in their head. No expectations, no history, no weight. I looked at the mountains, and for once, I felt home.

Up until this point, I was only known as many other names but it was the first day of class and while I listened to everyone introduce themselves, I thought to myself, "who am I?"

I couldn't simply say my old name because I wasn't that person here. It didn't feel right. I didn't have to be that person here. And that's where Olive came from. On a whim, yes—but also with intention. I claimed Olive, myself in a way I never had before.

We "had" to live in the same apartments together for our first year, but I loved the sense of community it gave me that I hadn't experienced before. People from all over the country—New York, Wisconsin, Vermont, Florida, California, Massachuetts, Texas—name a state, someone was from there. The first night I moved in, someone was playing an instrument outside and I hadn't heard it before, so I ended up going out of my place to listen. A few people sat there and listened and like magic, slowly a few more people came outside with their own and they started playing together. I remember just sitting there with strangers and feeling like I found the right place, and truly I did.

Everyone spoke differently. There was always this sense of care in their tone, this softness and

there was this back and forth of openness I hadn't experienced back home. Some of the people around me had lived entire lifetimes before arriving, not all, but a handful—one studied herbal medicine in the mountains of Peru, another had their own apartment in Paris at sixteen. I remember once telling someone I spent time with how incredible everyone seemed to be, how cool they were and how interesting their lives were compared to mine. And I'll never forget what she said, as we walked through thick Colorado snow, our arms linked: "That might be true. But look around. You still ended up here with us. And that makes you just as special."

In Boulder, I was finally able to quiet down, to reach inside myself, to become who I couldn't be at home. I discovered parts of me I might never have known otherwise. And in many ways, I like to say that really, I left the real Olive back in Boulder. And it was so very cool to have met her, that part of myself.

So going back to the idea: is it possible to run from your problems, or do you evidentially just end up running into yourself?

For me, the answer for me is: no. It's funny how we kind of live by and repeat these ideologies as universal truths: "You can't love someone if you don't love yourself." "How you do one thing is how you do everything." "Old keys don't open new doors."

But why? Why do we let those sayings dictate the rules of our lives? Why assume they always apply?

Moving to Boulder saved me. I met some of my favorite people in the world there. If I hadn't "run," I wouldn't be who I am now. The problems I had at home weren't waiting for me in Colorado—they loosened their grip. The space I found there gave me the clarity to face them when I did eventually return. And I couldn't have solved them without those people, those mountains, and that time away. And maybe that's the point: sometimes you have to run toward something else in order to find yourself.

So maybe the question is: Is this just Sagittarius jargon or can running from yourself actually be the very thing that helps you find who you really are?

★Shoutout to my lovers that have also moved back home from N. I miss you everyday and I hope you can feel my kisses from me to you—wherever you are!★