To Suffocate or To Live: Why I Must Leave

To Suffocate or To Live: Why I Must Leave

Lately, I’ve been thinking about loading up the car, saying to hell with everything, and just driving. Living out of the car if I have to. Finding some other city, some other soil, to plant myself in until I can get established. It might sound reckless, but I would rather be homeless in a car with hope than secure in a house where my soul slowly suffocates.

I live in a place where sameness is celebrated, where chicken gravy is considered daring and Chinese food is considered exotic. Where routine is not just comfortable—it is the highest virtue. The people here don’t demand expansion of themselves, and they don’t expect it of others. They’ve grown accustomed to the glass walls of their fish tank, convinced it’s the whole ocean.

But I can feel the glass pressing in on me. Spiritually, emotionally, intellectually—I am suffocating. Even the securities I have here—a house, food, family—don’t feel like gifts anymore. They feel like cages. They promise safety while delivering only stagnation. The coin flips heads, it flips tails, but it is always the same coin.

Some might say I’m running away. I reject that. There is nothing here that I am trying to escape—no deep personal demons, no unsettledness in myself, no “problems” that require fleeing. If anything, I long for new problems. I crave the friction and the challenge of growth. What I want to escape is not myself—it’s the culture I live in.

This culture, for me, is like being in an abortion clinic receiving services—not because I have shame about who I am, but because the environment itself is designed to terminate potential. To cut off what could be. To ensure that nothing grows. That is what it feels like to live in Pocatello: a quiet death of spirit, disguised as stability.

I would rather risk everything for movement, for expansion, for the possibility of life. I would rather run headlong into the chaos of the unknown than remain here in the stagnant certainty of death. Because here, even in comfort, I cannot breathe.

And so, this isn’t about running away from problems. It is about willingly running into them—into the storms, the hunger, the uncertainty, the raw winds of becoming—just to feel the air fill my lungs again. To feel the pulse of movement, the risk of living, the weight of freedom.

For to stay here is to live in a sealed pond, where the water has grown stale, where nothing moves, where even the fish forget the taste of the current. But to leave—to risk homelessness, instability, and the unknown—is to throw myself back into the river. A river that might batter me against rocks, might pull me under, but will always move, always carry me somewhere new.

And if I have to choose between a pond that suffocates and a river that could drown me, I will choose the river every single time. Because at least in the river, I am alive.

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