My anxiety is a spackle, filling in the cracks of daily life. For some people, anxiety can be a positive, keeping their senses sharp and giving them just enough edge to practice the presentation another time, plan a little better.

Mine stays mostly dormant during those times, a silent passenger that lets me drive when I need to be on. Instead, it hovers in the shadows, popping out to whisper in my ear in quiet moments. Hey, haven’t seen you work on your book for a while; are you ready to admit that isn’t going to happen? Are you sure you’re doing enough at work? Are you sure you’re there enough for your friends? Are you sure you are enough? Maybe you should be working out right now and, hey, why’d you eat that today? Are you sure you’re okay? (You might not be okay.)

So many of us deal with anxiety that I’m starting to think it’s the price of being – I don’t know, an inquisitive person, an empathetic human, an almost-mid-30s woman who is always in search of life? All of the above, probably.

My anxiety sometimes stops me from the solo adventures I always thought I’d undertake: jaunts to see Central Park, hiking the Appalachian Trail, days spent by myself, lost in bookstores with no one to check their watch and hurry me along. It chatters so loudly in my ear that too much time in solitude gives me schizophrenia, leaving me scrambling to make plans for coffee, dinner, when faced with too much time alone.

Don’t get me wrong: I LOVE spending time with my husband and friends, but I have always wanted to be one of those confident women who feel at home enough with themselves that they do whatever they feel called to do, company or not.

But this week? I splurged a few vacation days and followed Mechanic on a work trip to a Portland suburb. While he was in class, I snagged an Uber to the city with one thing on my agenda: Shop at Powell’s Books, a massive bookstore that lives at the top of my wish list.

I took myself out for breakfast and had the tastiest little chocolate potato doughnut (that’s a thing?!) ever made.

Then on to Powell’s. It was as marvelous as I dreamed it would be. I spent two hours in the fiction section alone, gathering a stack of books to carry into the coffee to read the first chapter of each, deciding which one was worth my time over a large iced tea. And, three lovely hours later, I took my new books to a little Thai restaurant, where I ate lunch quietly and continued reading the book I started on the plane on my Kindle.

Thanks to my Mophie power charger (worth every penny to an extrovert travelin’ solo), I had a fully-charged phone with my social media crutch just a click away. But I mostly just took in the scenery around me, stopping to snap pics and breathe in the crisp northwest air.

It was just one little step toward brave, toward those adventures I’ve always wanted to take. But it was a step that felt good.