In October 2016, I left my home in New York City to join my husband on tour for his work. For 10 months I’ve been wheeling in and out of hotels, AirBnBs, and the guest rooms of gracious friends, whiling away hours in airports with the “Watch Offline” feature on my Netflix app. I’ve stayed the night at an abandoned summer camp, biked the Golden Gate Bridge, saw Red Rocks, hiked Camelback Mountain, ate more pizza than I care to admit, and strolled the Chicago Art Institute until my feet were sore and puffy. It’s been exhilarating and exhausting and forced me to examine my faults, fears, and dreams in exactly the way I’d hoped. But a nagging, panic-inducing question still looms over my husband and me, one we’ve been avoiding all year. “So, what’s next?”