The Footprints We Leave Behind and What We Keep

“‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane

Don’t know when I’ll be back again

Oh, baby, I hate to go.”

- John Denver

As I played Tetris with the luggage, I could feel emotions bubbling to the surface. Fitting my wife's accessibility devices and the luggage for four adults into the back of the rental car became a welcome distraction from the reality that the time to say “Goodbye” was approaching far too quickly. As each piece found its place, that reality closed in.

After a week of reconnecting with family in California, we were only hours away from boarding the plane back to our newly adopted home in Washington. I was looking forward to a night in my own bed, curled up with my dogs, but I also wasn’t ready to leave. As much as I’ve enjoyed our move to the Pacific Northwest, being separated from the people closest to us has made the transition harder.

But I also knew the sadness I felt wasn’t unique to this moment. For me, there’s something about leaving that always brings melancholy.

The first time I remember this feeling was on a cross‑country trip in the summer between fifth and sixth grade. After a week with my aunt in Los Angeles, we would load the car the next morning for the long drive back to New York.

This was almost fifty years ago, but I still remember sitting on the front lawn saying goodbye to my aunt’s cat. A week isn’t long enough to form a real attachment to someone else’s pet, but it became a stand‑in for feelings I couldn’t share with the humans in my life.

As the cat purred, I told it how much fun I’d had that week and how I wished I could stay longer. I don’t know why I couldn’t talk about it with my family, but as I petted that cat, I worked through those feelings and prepared myself for our departure.

While it’s no surprise to feel sad when leaving relatives you rarely see, I’ve felt that same sadness in unexpected moments. In one case, the emotional pull was in the opposite direction, yet I was still sad to leave.

The training session required me to spend two weeks in Chicago away from my family. I learned a lot and liked the people I trained with, but I didn’t form any close relationships. What I did enjoy were the days I spent exploring the city alone. In that time, I discovered a place I’d never known, and in the solitude of those days, learned more about myself.

Over the previous couple of years, I’d made significant strides toward pushing past my introverted tendencies. Before the trip, I promised myself I’d take that progress further and refuse to hide on the sidelines.

During those two weeks, my self-confidence grew as I lived up to the promise I’d made to myself. In one exercise, I made myself vulnerable in front of the group during a lesson on active listening. Even as the instructor purposely ignored what I said, I kept going. It was a significant step forward in my own development.

As I packed to go home, the familiar tug of my emotions hit me. At first, it was surprising, as I couldn't wait to get back. But as I exhaled, it made perfect sense; I was leaving behind a unique moment in my life.

Maybe the feeling I had as I left wasn’t really “sadness” at all. It wasn’t a longing to hold onto something physical; it was simply the marker of a memory being made. I may have been leaving a place, but the journey continued.

Carl Petersen is a former Green Party candidate for the LAUSD School Board and a longtime advocate for public education and special needs families. Now based in Washington State, he writes about politics, culture, and their intersections at TheDifrntDrmr.