I’ve looked at the flights. I can recite the visa requirements from memory now. But my finger hovers over “confirm” and doesn’t click.

I’ve done this before. A year in Mexico City. A year bouncing between Santiago, Buenos Aires, São Paulo. A year in Canada. I’ve worked remotely from hostels with bad Wi-Fi and cafés that didn’t want me ordering just one coffee. I know how to pack light. I know how to make friends in a new country by week two.

So why does my chest tighten when I picture myself doing it again?

I’m forty now. That’s not supposed to matter. But it does.

Last week I met with a financial advisor I found on a website. I didn’t tell her I was thinking about Spain. I just asked about tax treaties and double taxation and whether my retirement accounts could handle another year of no contributions. She pulled up a spreadsheet. Showed me the math. It was fine. Better than fine.

“You’re actually in great shape,” she said, like it was a compliment I didn’t deserve. I nodded. Thanked her. Got off the Zoom call and looked at my accounts again for the 50th time.

The whole afternoon afterwards, I kept thinking: What if I fuck this up?

Not the taxes. Not the logistics. The money itself. The thing I worked so hard to build. What if I go to Spain and it costs more than I planned and I come back broke? What if this is the financial mistake that undoes everything? 

I know that’s not rational. I’ve run the numbers a dozen times. But knowing doesn’t stop my body from bracing like I’m about to lose something.

My friend texted me yesterday: You finally have stability. Why would you leave now?

She meant it kindly. But it sat in my stomach like a stone.

Stability right now means I know exactly how much I’m spending each month. It means my budget spreadsheet is color-coded and my savings account could carry me for a year, maybe more. It means I took time off work to rest…the thing I said I wanted for so long.

But I’m not resting.

I’m at the gym 4 days a week. I’m meal-prepping on Sundays. I’m reorganizing my closet by season and color. I’m doing something all the time because if I’m not, the quiet gets too loud.

Maybe Spain is the thing I should be doing. And maybe I’m fighting it because it doesn’t feel productive enough. It doesn’t fit into the categories I’ve built: work, exercise, optimization, progress.

Or maybe I’m just scared.

There’s also this feeling of…I don’t feel safe right now.

Not in some distant, theoretical way. I mean my body doesn’t feel safe. I watch the news. Raids, deportations, people who look like me being pulled off buses and something in my nervous system says stay small, stay still, don’t draw attention.

At home in Chicago, I know where I am. I know my neighbors. I know which streets to avoid at night and which ones feel like mine.

Spain is a question mark. And right now, question marks feel dangerous but not in the same way they feel at home. Dangerous on the inside.

Then there’s the weight I’m losing. Ten pounds down, maybe fifteen by March. For the first time in years, I feel like my body is cooperating with me. What if I go to Spain and fall off the routine? What if I come back heavier, softer, less disciplined?

I know how that sounds. I can hear it.

Yesterday I opened Google Flights again. Madrid, one-way, mid-April. The price was reasonable. I added it to my cart.

Then I closed the tab.

I told myself I’d decide tomorrow. Then I told myself I’d decide next week. Now I’m telling myself I need to finish a few things first. Sell the condo. Hit my goal weight. Wait until the news calms down. Wait until I feel more settled.

But I don’t think settled is a place I get to. I think it’s a thing I keep deferring.

Spain feels like the place I want to be. But right now, it also feels like proof that I’m not ready. That I’m still figuring something out. That rest isn’t supposed to look like this….like a city I can’t commit to and a savings account I’m too afraid to spend.

Maybe I stay in Chicago. Maybe that’s the rest I actually need.

Or maybe I’m just stalling.

This morning I woke up and opened my laptop. Pulled up the visa application I started three weeks ago. The cursor blinked in the blank field labeled “Intended Date of Arrival.” I typed June 15. Then I highlighted it. Then I pressed delete. The field went empty again.

I left it that way and went to the gym.