You don't know what you like until you're surrounded by what you don't.

My friend told me about this mantra that always got her through tough times: "Change. Adapt. Breathe." I always brushed it off, labeling it as useless advice for me. I've got the emotional strength of a pool noodle; although it can take a beating doesn't mean it doesn't lose bits of itself in the process.

A year ago, I moved from my sleepy small town in Florida to Portland, Oregon for college. Why didn't I just go to USF like everyone else? Because I didn't want to. After suffocating myself at PHSC and working locally for two years, I felt that I was ready to blossom. I wanted to use college as my ticket out, a chance to explore parts of the country that I've always wanted to see.

I'm also a masochist when it comes to challenging myself, so why not move as far away as possible while still staying in the continental United States?

I've always yearned to explore the Pacific Northwest, thinking that was where I belonged (which is the typical thought of the East-Coaster, hence the Manifest Destiny and the pioneers: although mine was much less destructive for the natives). But moving out for the first time ever and out to a completely different place than what I was used to... that was enough to put me into a state of shock that lasted for about ten months.

But I'm getting off track.

Change. Adapt. Breathe.

In Portland, there are no Walmarts. No Winn Dixies. No Publixes. Nothing that I was used to. Within downtown, Portland harbors a tiny city Target with a limited selection, a Rite Aid with police officers examining you at the door, a Safeway with a surplus of homeless people, and a Whole Foods with an expansive soup bar. But the best part? Organic and locally grown foods are worshipped there and are decently priced. Mind over matter. I felt better eating two bowls of that cereal because the box said it was organic. But I did lose 30 pounds since moving instead of gaining 15, so one point for Oregon's obsession with organic foods.

Portland also lovescoffee. Caffeine is probably what keeps everyone so civil and excited each day. For being a proud city who supports local business, there is a Starbucks every five blocks. I've never liked coffee, but the busier I found myself, the more I was drawn to the taste, because it was always around. Having anxiety problems prompted me to add "decaf" into each of my orders, but it became a placebo, a safety blanket to cling to as I trudged to class or work. It proved to everyone how unwilling I was to be awake.

Since the saying is "Keep Portland Weird," the fashion sense swings any three ways: Nike, Nike Everywhere (because guess where the headquarters are?), Typical Bohemian, and a Creative Twist on Popular Fashion Trends (i.e. funky patterns and eccentric third pieces). Considering my idea of a successful fashion day consisted of a T-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots before I moved (and the fact that I had no idea what a "third piece" was), I think I acclamated well to Portland's unofficial dress code. I opened myself up to coral skirts and those flats that leave the arch of your foot unbarricaded. I wore bronze/gold jewelry to break up my monotonous silver pallet. And I've gone a day without washing my hair because even though locals tend to melt when it hits 90°F in Oregon, heat without humidity does not intimidate me compared to what I'm used to in Brooksville at the height of summer.

That's the other thing: I had a winter.

For nine months, I worked at the Portland International Airport outside on the roadway (not the runway, the roadway; instead of guiding planes I guided mobs of people into appropriate taxis and flat rate shuttles). When I started in late October, they handed me a large red coat that had fleece lining and the exterior of a rain jacket. I blanched when I saw the fleece. What was I getting my shaky southern self into?

I learned how to layer very quickly. Why would I ever wear two layers of socks? Because I didn't want my toes to freeze on the roadway when it was 29°F at 10:30pm. What are wind pants? They deflect the wind chill and cover up the fact that I was wearing thermals, leggings, and sweatpants underneath them. Not to mention that the combination of my wind pants and my huge red coat caused me to resemble a frumpy used tampon. Not even the homeless people would ask me for money on my late night train rides home.

I learned how to make every action efficient, thinking ahead to what the consequences might be as to produce as little error as possible. Paradoxically, this simultaneously made me more spontaneous, because I was more sure that the split decisions I made would work out, or rather that if they didn't then I'd know how to go about repairing any damage. Without knowing, I was gaining more confidence in my ability to adapt.

So yes, I am a pool noodle who when beaten against aggregated concrete will lose myself in chunks. But is that really a bad thing? Innovation drives our society. Staying stagnant doesn't bring anyone success or personal growth. So, if those chunks of myself didn't stand a chance against the concrete, do I really want those chunks? If I want to be successful, I have to withstand life's ruthless beatings. Those chunks were only hindering me, obviously. They were preventing me from changing, adapting, and breathing.