I’m in year two of my bicoastal living, having just arrived on the West Coast a few days ago.

As I settle in—unpacking the cottage, retreiving my belongings from both the storage unit and my friend’s garage (thank you very much, Lisa)—things start to fall into place as if I never left.

My landlady left a personalized note for me, as well as my books stacked neatly on the console below the TV. The bird magazines I picked up last time I was here were also laid out just as I left them.

Everything just as it was.

And yet, something feels…different.

I spent the day running around town, squeezing in errands before I head back into the office on Monday. But as I drove through the familiar streets, a quiet uneasiness crept in.

I’ve been here before.
I know these roads.
This place should feel easy.

So why don’t I feel settled?

It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem it’s me.

The truth is, while everything here remained untouched, I didn’t.

I’m returning this time carrying the weight of the past six months.
More than slightly, if I’m being honest… just not quite ready to admit how much.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I turned 50.

Fifty.

Which is exciting. And surreal. And, apparently, deeply reflective.

So here I am again.
Back in this beautiful cottage I’ve been coming to since 2024.
The creaky fence still announces every passerby.
The birds are right on schedule, chirping like nothing ever changed.

And I sit on the couch, taking it all in, wondering why I feel so… unsettled.

And then it hits me.

My characters never feel settled either.

Alice in And Then Ben was plunged into an unforgiving situation, where she had to rely on her wits to survive an unending winter, living on her own for months and months as she watched the supplies dwindle each day.. until Ben. Unsettled.

Jill in The Shady Oaks Division has to adjust to the slower life of retirement, a life that she asked for, after serving many decades as one of the governments most lethal agents, living in the quiet suburbs filled with nosey neighbors and intrusive thoughts of her past. Unsettled.

So now I’m left wondering…

Is this life imitating art?
Or has my art always been telling on me?

Maybe that unsettled feeling isn’t something to fix.

Maybe it’s a signal.

That something has shifted.
That something is still shifting.
That we’re somewhere in between what was… and what’s next.

And maybe not being settled just means the story isn’t over yet.