- When my marriage ended, I moved to a remote location and started a new job.
- I knew it likely meant my dating odds wouldn't be so good — but I was fine with that.
On the first day of orientation at my new job, a colleague asked whether I was single. It didn't seem the time nor place to grab her shoulders and shout, "Yes, I'm single — aren't you? Aren't you?"
Instead, I smiled and shook my head. I opted not to dive into the details of how my marriage had imploded.
She told me that, given our mountaintop location, perched 10,000 feet above sea level, the dating pool was fairly shallow, and any swimmers left in the pool had long gone soggy. Getting here requires navigating a long procession of hairpin turns that churn the stomach — no Starbucks, no chain stores, no distractions, no chaos. I love it.
The location was a major draw for me to this job. After years of a volatile marriage, the isolation and solitude beckoned as a chiller, safer option. I'd also experienced the good and the bad of living in cities: expansive dining options and memorable art, as well as getting robbed and harassed.
These experiences show me that many people have no qualms about harming others. Maybe I sound bitter, but I see this recognition as practical.
I'm trying to learn from the past and guard myself toward a safe, peaceful future. Moving to a small, isolated town on a high mountain seems like a good setup for that.
I'm getting used to being alone
Coming home to an empty apartment is a new feeling. While it can occasionally feel unsettling how empty my space is, I no longer feel trepidation when I come home — unsure whether Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde would greet me. I feel peace. The silence is all my own.
With the quiet, there's space for my preferences and long-term ambitions to unfold. Rather than stepping on eggshells when I get home, I have the bandwidth to read, to write, to think about the big picture.
I'm practicing being more discerning about how I spend my time and whom I spend my time with. I watch what people say and do more closely. It's not paranoia; it's a practical way to ensure the people I let in my life are worthy of being there. I'd hazard a guess that most people are not selective enough.
Right now, I'm not looking to date
With the dating odds not in my favor up on this mountain, I'm not looking to roll the love dice.
On the weekends, I go hiking and savor the scent of ponderosa pines. At night, the stars are startlingly bright. A few nights ago, for the first time in my life, I saw a "moonbow" — a faint, nocturnal rainbow. Awestruck, I paused and felt grateful.
Through decades of living, we're all bound to experience times of searing grief, as well as those of unbounded, rhapsodic joy. I'm glad that I've taken control so I can experience more of these sublime moments.