Sarah Cahalan | December 21, 2017
Christmas is in five days, and I’m not sure yet when I’ll get home.
For my first post-Notre Dame Christmas, I made it home on December 26, fresh off a plane from Dublin after a day of Masses at the parish where I spent the year volunteering. The next year, it was December 23, back for a 10-day break from an internship in Denver. The evidence of my travels still sits in my email archives, confirmations from Aer Lingus and Southwest of trips taken across oceans and flyover states to make it home for the holidays.
This year, there is no flight. There’s no plan at all. I’m back at Notre Dame now, and home — my parents and grandparents and all of our Christmas traditions — is an hour and a half down U.S. 31. I’ll go home whenever I get around to it.
A few months ago, I would never have guessed I’d be driving home for Christmas. In fact, this year’s holiday flight — from New Hampshire, December 22, MHT → BWI → IND — was already booked. But life is full of surprises.
A native Midwesterner turned fervent Midwest-hater, I assumed when I began job hunting this summer that I would end up on the East Coast, within a few hours of where I was then living. Perhaps, if I were lucky, I’d head back to Europe or to some cool city out west, to Austin or Seattle. It could be anywhere except home.