As the airline life would have it, I got called out on my last day in my Chicago apartment— I left the keys with the concierge, headed to the airport, and the next day I would fly to Seattle to start life anew.

Except it hasn’t been all magic and rainbows as my life so dearly appears.

Prior to this decision to move, it was completely in the plan to be a floating vagabond for a while— going here, doing this and that, coming home to Missouri when I could or making pit stops in Montana if I couldn’t make the half-transcon home. While there is a certain freedom involved with not being tied down to any one place, there is a chaotic, survivalist mode in which my brain engages when I don’t know where I’ll rest my head.

It hit home (giggle) recently when I finished a trip in Seattle, too late to catch the flight to Montana where my grandparents live. Not wanting to pay for a hotel for the night, I hopped on a red eye flight to New York, a nice long flight to sleep. I didn’t wake up until the wheels hit the pavement at JFK. Smelling like airplane, I went to the Delta Sky Club (a perk of my American Express Platinum Card) to take a shower.

To summarize, I flew for free on a transcontinental flight and showered in an airport lounge: I’m the most privileged homeless person there is.

I hung out in Minneapolis for a few days with my darling Kate and Emily and their doogle Kiki— there are very few ailments that best friends and a dog can’t fix.

My search for an apartment in Seattle is not going well. I’ve scoped out a few places within budget that fall within my parameters (which aren’t that specific, truly. One room, stove, fridge, in the gayborhood). But the ones that I truly like have one common theme— the property management companies (or sole landlords) don’t get back to me.

I feel rejected, the motherlode of all insecurities and perhaps the best vulnerability out there. Of course, there are far worse rejections I’m facing— romance, select friends, dogs who won’t let me pet them— but to be ignored by a leasing company? Sheesh! What’s a girl gotta do to get a home around here?

Most of this rejection is obscure— it is said by the unsaid. When landlords don’t get back to me, I have no idea of knowing where I stand in the matter. Is the property spoken for? Or do I just not fit your building? Silence, therefore, is the culprit; I find it rude and dismissive.

As a classic Taurus, I’m grounded by nature. But when I had my chakras read (yes, I’m that much of a hippie), it revealed that my root chakra was out of whack. The healer pointed to my lack of home and that I hadn’t been eating meat during lent; aside from the suggestion to have a steak, it was obvious that the cure for this imbalance would be to acquire semi-permanent housing. I’m trying, desperately.

Dealing with rejection takes patience. I won’t say that I deal well with patience; I’m more apathetic to the construct overall. But there are deadlines here— sort of! Losing my mind is one of them, because I don’t know how much longer I can manage being uprooted. Breath by breath, day by day.