Why Now: A Field Guide to Starting

After over a decade—yes, let’s call it what it is—of saying I would, I’ve finally done it: started a blog. The Field Guide to Living. A space for tracking the journey, the detours, and all the small, quietly meaningful moments in between.

So, why now?

The best way I can explain it is with a few lines from Charles Bukowski’s “so you want to be a writer?”:

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

Well—I’ve waited. Or more truthfully, I’ve avoided. I’ve circled the idea, let fear and perfectionism hold the pen. But something shifted. It’s that familiar, unavoidable moment: do or don’t. Shit or get off the pot. Try to fly.

Lately, I lie awake with questions buzzing in my head like mosquitoes: Can I still write? Do I even like writing anymore? What do I even have to say?

And then a friend, in a moment of brutal grace, responded to one of my usual spirals about life—career, relationships, body, money, fill-in-the-blank—with this:

“I just want you to be happy. It’s been years since I’ve seen you really happy.”

Years. Her words dropped in my chest like a stone. That can’t be true, I thought. But maybe it is. I’m not unhappy… but I’m not fully alive either. I’ve been paused. Waiting for the perfect moment. The right conditions. The go-ahead from the universe.

But what if this is the sign?

So I’m starting here. With this blog. As a kind of living experiment. A place to track the doing instead of the overthinking. A place for stories and stumbles, questions and half-answers. A place where travel isn’t just a destination, but a mindset—a way of approaching each day with curiosity, a sense of movement, and an appreciation for the small things: the good coffee, the honest conversation, the first step out the door. And yes, the big adventures—but more importantly, what those big (and small) adventures teach me about myself and our larger human existence. Even if I fail, or stumble along the way.

Because failure, at the very least, means you showed up. It means you tried. And when was the last time I really tried—without needing to know I’d succeed?

So this is the beginning of my Field Guide. For myself, and maybe for you. For anyone stuck in their own head, waiting for permission. Let this be it.

Like my dad says, every time he sighs and stands up to do something that needs doing:

Here we go.

Thanks for being here.
—Caity