goodbyes.

a song to set the scene // send me on my way by rusted root

It didn’t hit me until the schedule was published.

The same schedule I’ve been posting for the last eight years as Manager of Brew@602.

Except this time, somebody else was posting.

And for the first time: I had no more shifts.

It was an inevitability I’ve been avoiding since first venturing into my new business (more to come on that later).

For months, I’ve been putting off what I knew was coming, and when I saw that schedule posted, with my name not on there, the reality hit me.

It was happening.

One door was closing as another was opening.

Sniffling and sobbing, I realized that this change was no longer an apparition in my head: it was happening, and my life would never be the same.

For the last eight years, I have poured (literally) my heart and soul into this business.

When I think about no longer getting to wear my “train crew” denim shirt and run hot chocolates to eager kiddos, my heart aches.

When I think about our closing playlists and jamming to Hamilton after a slow winter’s day, my heart aches.

And when I think about no longer being able to hop in and help during a busy rush, my heart aches.

But when I think about how significant this chapter on the train has had on me, my heart soars.

My regulars became friends I now say hello to at the grocery store.

My employees became a part of my family.

I became known as the brew mom, and I laughed, cried, and caffeinated my way through a good chunk of my 20’s.

Despite shifts that left me crying in the walk in, and despite days staring depressingly out the window when it was slow, my time there was more impactful than I could’ve ever imagined.

Working there grew me, shaped me, inspired me, and I think it placed me exactly where I am now: in front of a new train door.

As Pooh once wisely pondered: how lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?

Well, saying this particular goodbye was very difficult.

Ask the multiple people who witnessed me putting it off for months and then saw me unravel when my name wasn’t on the schedule.

But I have to remember why the goodbye feels painful, and cherish my mornings and afternoons spent there.

On the bright side, my “long-distance” move is across the parking lot.

So for the foreseeable future, I’m not actually saying goodbye.

I’m saying “see you later” for that afternoon coffee.

Cause it’s still home. And it always will be.