1. Daisy: Return Address DAISY Return Address
I will never be the woman who runs away, I reminded myself as I took my third sip of rosé and set the glass back down on the granite countertop at the breakfast bar in my small kitchen. In my list of life rules, that one could have been bolded, in red, right at the top. Because I knew what running away did to people. I knew what it had done to me.

I don’t drink on weeknights—a rule I was patently ignoring right now, on a Tuesday—was on there too, but it was more of a normal-text, black-font, way-down-the-list kind of rule that I could bend at my discretion, like no crop tops and red lipstick washes you out.

“I am not running away,” I said, out loud, to no one. I looked down at my hands, which were still visibly shaking, and felt the weariness way deep down in my bones, the kind of tired that only happens when a good, long cry exhausts you in a way you think you’ll never recover from. Maybe I never would recover. Or, at least, I knew I’d never be the same.

I looked back at the computer screen, and, with a trembling finger, scrolled through the listings of open nursing positions. Here, in Charlotte, North Carolina, I had been a neonatal intensive care nurse for more than a decade. I had just been promoted at the Level 1 trauma center where I was working. The work was hard—and sometimes devastating—but rewarding. I loved my friends and fellow nurses. I had yet to have one single affair with a married doctor. My nose was clean, my head was down, and I was getting somewhere.

But after the last three days of experiencing the side of a Level 1 trauma center that wasn’t so rewarding, I wondered if what I thought I wanted was actually what I wanted after all. I had imagined myself bustling through the NICU, saving lives, making hard decisions. And, for ten years, I had. Every day—and more nights than I could count—I had risen to the challenge, I had taken care of the sickest of sick babies and, quite often, their parents too. But, over the past few days, I had hit a wall. Right now, everything inside my soul wanted sleepy, wanted easy. Could I take the pain of what I had just experienced ever again?

My finger stopped. I gasped when I saw it. Cape Carolina Regional Medical Center. This was like the flicker of a firefly, a shooting star, a job listing rare and fleeting, and so very special. A listing in the sleepy seaside town that I had so loved as a girl. It was owned by the same parent company as my hospital in Charlotte, so, in theory, were I to get the job, the transfer would be easy. I took a fortifying sip of rosé. I filled out the application, closed my eyes, and hit send.

This was why I shouldn’t drink during the week. I couldn’t just upend my entire life.

I probably won’t get the job, I thought. But even then, something inside me whispered that I probably would. With my experience in the NICU, where places like Cape Carolina Regional transported their sick, preemie, and high-risk infants, I would be a shoo-in, way overqualified for this intermediate-level nursery job. I would be taking a pay cut. But, compared to what I faced on a daily basis now, this position would be sleepy, calm.

I looked around the apartment I had been renting for almost two years. I had yet to hang a single picture on the wall. Deep down, did I always suspect this situation would be temporary? Or was I just this burnt out?

A glimpse of a tiny face ran through my mind, and my breath caught. Yeah. If I got the job, I would probably take it. I needed a break. I mean, I also needed health insurance and a 401(k), so it wasn’t like I could escape to the islands.

Cape Carolina. My heart raced, and I scolded myself, because I knew why. I knew it was remembering a person I never let myself think about, someone I pushed away at all costs, someone I didn’t even know for sure was still there.

I sat up straighter and cleared my throat, trying to imagine starting over, wondering if I would actually go through with it. I thought of the postcard in the box underneath my bed, the Cape Carolina return address from all those years ago, the address that might not even be valid anymore.

But it could be.

It was possible. And the mere idea made me consider something I’d never thought of before: It isn’t running away if you’re running to something.

Or someone.