I shuffled through my handmade quilts, high school notes and other childhood close nonsense, only to come up with 2 left-footed basketball shoes.

Great.

It's been years since I've hooped. Aside from shooting around once or twice, I literally haven't played competitive basketball since I decided to throw in the towel the second that my senior year high school season ended. 

So joining a co-ed rec league was definitely a flashback meets risk meets adventure. In my purple running shorts, sneakers and a makeshift team jersey, I took to the court with new teammates, new hopes and very uncomfortable feet.

The first week was better than anticipated, and as I made the trek last night for week 2, I found myself eagerly anticipating getting back out there. I barely warmed up, however, somewhat not getting enough time and somewhat not wanting to miss terribly in front of my unfamiliar teammates. 

As they chose the starting line up, I was quite surprised to find myself behind the finger pointing at who was to go out on the court. I spent the better part of the opening minutes swinging the ball around and feeding the big boys under the hoop or on the outside of the arc. 

They were good. I was rusty. 

Suddenly, on an unexpected pass caught from a no look dish from my teammate, I was on the baseline with the rock in my hands. I took a dribble, clung to the air and put up a jumper, waiting for the ball to be smashed down in my face. 

Instead, it sunk through the net, and I don't think anyone was more surprised than me. Even in my glory days, I was always mostly good for points of steals, outside shots or the occasional free throw. 

The next trip down the court, I put my hands out, asking for the ball from my same-shirted handler. I was on the other baseline this time, dribbled in, pumped and went all the way for the layup, bracing myself for the rejection once again. But again, it kissed the backboard and fell through seamlessly. 

When it was my turn to rotate out, I heard more of a discussion about the rules. In this particular co-ed league, men were not allowed to block the shots women took. While this was a bit of a shocker to my feminist mindset, I now had a greater understanding of why some of my shots were making their way to the hoop. While I had anticipated obstacles not only blocking my way, but also keeping me from trying in the first place, they weren't even obstacles that were relevant.

I finished the game with a few more baskets and solid play. My teammates were gracious with compliments and high fives, and as I started my drive back to my parents' house, I found myself almost taking away my success because of the unique rule on the court.

I can't really count those as points because they would have been blocked if it was allowed, I thought.

What kind of BS is that though? Who knows if they would have been blocked? I was expecting to be limited before I even tried, and I didn't bother with gathering all of the information. Not only did the game push my confidence, it pushed my understanding of self-limitations.

Job hunting is similar. Sometimes when it asks for 7+ years of experience, I forfeit applying, as my years are fewer. Big name brands are more intimidating, and those who show hundreds of applicants can make me wonder what could possibly stand out about me?

I'm assuming my shot will get blocked before I even take it. Did I mention I missed a whole bunch of shots last night too? I'm never going to have a perfect game, and I'm never going to have a perfect plan. I will get blocked, I will miss and I will get rejected.

I will score too. I came home, giddy with nostalgic excitement and team camaraderie. I browsed basketball shoes online and dug my own ball out of my trunk to shoot around. If my expectations are to be stopped, I'm keeping myself from making any progress at all. Just because things take time or need to slow down doesn't mean there isn't an opportunity for positive results.

I'm not going to get any jobs I don't apply for, and I'm not going to make any shots I don't take.

​Count the basket.

As I walk-stretched over the familiar, but uneven brick, I realized that it's been years since I've done this. This, meaning going for a run (on purpose), and this, meaning retracing the steps of my teenage angsty self who found solace in a radio walkman and the childhood streets and paths I knew so well. Where I had once toyed with the confusion and mistakes and decisions that drenched my high school self in trepidation and disarray, I now set out to find something along the same lines much later in life.

"I'm going for a run. I'll be back...soon," I told my father slash new roommate slash loving, but sympathetic compadre in this unplanned situation I'm currently in. I slipped on a pair of borrowed headphones that represented more than just a hollowed sound, and I flipped on a playlist. I've always loved getting lost in song through the private use of headphones. Logistically and symbolically. I've always loved the joy of exercising alongside music too. I've always loved my hometown. My determination. Wait, maybe this run was a great idea after all!

And then I actually started running. After 2 uphill blocks I decided I would go for a "walk" instead, but then worried that my dad would be under the illusion that I ran a lot longer than I was actually capable of. I'll just go to the next stop sign, I told myself. But there was a car at the next stop sign, and I didn't want the 4-door encompassed stranger to see me quit. I kept my pace up despite the recognition of being out of running shape.

The music beat in my ears and I smiled as I jogged to some of my favorite tunes. I looked at my childhood liquor store, still owned and operated by the same family. I looked up the road toward the high school and down the road toward the middle school. I passed houses of former and current friends, and I promised myself I would slow down and stop running at each of the next stop signs as long as no one was looking. I couldn't handle faceless onlookers knowing my struggle, and similarly, I couldn't imagine walking into the front door, fooling my father into the concept that I went for a run, when I was really just giving up partway through. Six stop signs later, I promised my legs and heart a break.

The next stop sign became the next stop sign, however, and the next landmark became a steadfast view as I kept my pace. Why was I so focused on what other people would view me as? Why was I worried I would falsify my "can-do-anything" persona toward my dad, who loves me unconditionally?

Because that's what I've been doing. I quit my job, left my town and sabotaged a relationship in one quick swoop. I had no plan. I just started getting rid of things - both on purpose and as collateral damage. I haven't admitted that though. The same way that I didn't want to stop my run because of the possibility of being seen failing by unknown drivers, I haven't wanted to talk about my unplanned life with people either. I mostly tell the truth, but I leave out a lot.

I was unhappy at my job - true.

It was time for me to leave my town - vague.

I'm unsure where things stand right now - misleading.

I'm covering up my fear, my internal disappointment and my failures. I'm mad at people who ask questions because I'm too afraid to ask them myself. I want the burn and high from a run, but I want to cut corners and leave a trail of smoke and mirrors in my path. I've taken my stress out on those closest to me and answered their dismay with defensiveness and spiraled over-reactions.

As I walked a block with sets of eyes that belonged to dog walkers, children playing and passing cars, I realized that I was still moving forward. I rested before picking my pace back up and making it all the way back to my driveway. I didn't tell my dad how far I went. How much I walked. He just smiled in support of my stress-relief. I hadn't mapped out my route ahead of time, but it got me right back to where I needed to go. I stopped along the way, but I also surpassed goals I didn't even know I'd set for myself during the journey.

I just...moved. Finding a job isn't easy. Recognizing behavioral patterns isn't easy. Moving back home after living on my own for 11 years isn't easy. Relationships aren't easy. Running isn't easy. But why would it be? I don't have to run a marathon or set a record or share my mileage. I don't have to find all the answers in order to "appear" put together and successful. I just have to move. It's unplanned, and it might feel a little messy, but I'm learning that each stop sign that I passed last night was a milestone. It wasn't the same run I took when I was 17, and it won't be the same run I take next week, next year or whenever. My feet meet new patches of the pavement, and my mind asks new questions. The journey gave me a lot more than I thought it would, and I realized I've been so focused on getting to the end that I've been missing a lot of the unplanned journey, too.