I’m lying in this stiff hotel bed in San Diego, two miles from the border, watching a romcom on mute and waiting for the Ambien to kick in. My suitcase is open but nothing looks right, everything feels too tight or too hopeful. I brought three lip balms for no reason and forgot my slippers. I keep scrolling like I’ll magically find the one post that tells me I’ll be fine and it won’t even hurt. My brain’s doing this back-and-forth thing, one second I feel brave, the next I feel like a fraud. But everything’s paid for and my Uber’s scheduled for 6:30am. I guess I’m doing this.