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Accepting dream jobs turns out to be anticlimactic when you’re doing it over email while wearing pajamas and questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

“Dr. Clark, we’re thrilled to have you join the organization,” the Seattle Icehawks’ GM says through my laptop screen, his enthusiasm crackling through the video call connection. “Your expertise in high-performance psychology is exactly what we need as we build our team culture.”

“Thank you. I’m excited to contribute to what you’re building.”

Excited is generous. I’m terrified, exhilarated, and simultaneously wondering if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life or finally making the right choice for the right reasons. But excited works as shorthand for the emotional clusterfuck currently occupying my chest cavity.

“We’ll have housing assistance coordinate with you about relocation. January 15th start date still work?”

“Perfect.”

“Excellent. Welcome to the Icehawks family, Dr. Clark.”

After the call ends, I sit in my Phoenix apartment surrounded by moving boxes and the existential weight of major life decisions.

Two weeks since Reed suggested we both go to Seattle.

Two weeks of logistics and paperwork and the careful dance of two people trying to build something together without losing themselves in the process.

The apartment looks strange half-packed—familiar furniture mixed with cardboard boxes labeled “Kitchen” and “Books” in my careful handwriting. Evidence of a life being carefully disassembled and prepared for transport to somewhere new.

My phone buzzes. Text from Reed.

Reed: How’d the final call go?

Me: Official. I’m now employed by an NHL team again. How’s the Boston situation?

Reed: Complicated. Jerry’s having multiple aneurysms, but Seattle’s interested. Very interested.

Me: Good interested or “we’ll take a chance on the disaster player” interested?

Reed: “We want to build something special, and you might be exactly what we need” interested.

Me: That’s good interested.

Reed: That’s terrifying interested. But good terrifying.

Me: The best kind.

Reed: You nervous?

I look around my half-packed life, at the coffee mug from my Phoenix job sitting next to boxes of winter clothes I haven’t worn in months. At the journal where I’ve been documenting this slow transformation from someone who plays it safe to someone who chooses possibility over certainty.

Me: Completely. But in a good way.

Me: Like maybe I’m finally doing something because I want to instead of because I should.

Reed: How does it feel?

Me: Terrifying. Revolutionary. Like jumping off a cliff and hoping someone built a bridge while I wasn’t looking.

Reed: For what it’s worth, I think you’re building the bridge as you fall.

Me: That’s either very romantic or very stupid.

Reed: Both. The best things usually are.

That evening, I’m boxing up books when my phone rings. My father’s contact photo—still the formal headshot from his coaching bio—stares back at me like a test I’m not sure I want to take.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Chelsea.” His voice sounds different. Softer. Less controlled. “I hear you took the Seattle position.”

“News travels fast.”

“I have my contacts. They’re lucky to have you.”

The words hit harder than expected because they sound genuine. Not the careful politeness we’ve maintained since our reconciliation, but actual pride from someone whose approval I’ve spent my life chasing.

“Thank you.”

“I also hear Hendrix might be joining you there.”

“Nothing’s confirmed yet. But possibly.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Good that you found someone who sees what I should have seen all along. That you’re brilliant at what you do. You don’t need my protection or approval to succeed. That I raised a bright and intelligent woman.”

I sink onto my couch, surrounded by moving boxes and overwhelmed by hearing words I’ve waited my entire life to hear.

“Dad—”

“I was wrong, Chelsea. About Hendrix, about your judgment, about what strength looks like. I let my fear of losing control blind me to the fact that you’d already grown beyond needing me to control anything.”

“I never wanted to disappoint you.”

“You never did. I disappointed myself by not trusting the person I raised you to become.”

Tears I didn’t expect threaten at the corners of my eyes. “I forgive you. For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth everything. But Chelsea?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need your forgiveness as much as you need to stop seeking my approval, still trying to earn my respect. You’ve already had it all this time. You’re a grown woman who knows her own mind.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

“Growing up isn’t about feeling certain. It’s about making choices anyway.”

After we hang up, I sit in the growing darkness of my apartment, processing words I never expected to hear from Chris Clark. An apology. Acknowledgment. Permission to stop performing for an audience that was never as critical as I imagined.

My phone buzzes. Text from Frank next door.

Frank: Saw the moving truck reservation. So it’s really happening?

Me: It’s really happening.

Frank: Good for you. Life’s too short to play it safe.

Me: Easy for you to say. You’re not the one jumping off cliffs.

Frank: Kid, I’ve been jumping off cliffs for seventy-two years. Want to know the secret?

Me: What’s the secret?

Frank: The cliff is usually smaller than it looks from the top.

I look around at my boxes, so happy that I made this decision. For once in my life, this choice seems like the right one, and I cannot wait.