The Truth Is, Home Came With Me: Moving from Rhode Island to Bozeman

The truth is, the mountains had been calling us for a while.

Long before we packed the moving truck, there were signs that our season was changing. For months, life gently but persistently nudged us toward something new and different. This wasn't just a midlife crisis. It was an invitation.

After dreaming, listening, and wondering through all the what-ifs, the job opportunity finally came through.

But even before the offer arrived, there were many moments when staying felt harder than leaving.

Walking away meant leaving a life. A town. A community. A practice. A house lovingly transformed into a home.

Thirteen years.

Some people called us brave. Others thought we were completely nuts.

Over the years, I've learned that more than one thing can be true at the same time.

Moving has a way of stripping away the familiar—the routines, the places, the faces, and even the identities we've quietly built around where we live.

It’s exciting. Heartbreaking. Terrifying.

Totally disorienting and discombobulating.

The truth is, it hasn't been love at first sight.

I miss the routines. The places and faces.

I miss the ease of what’s familiar.

I’ve come to believe though we must grieve what we love before we’re ready to receive what’s next.

I know missing Rhode Island doesn't mean we made the wrong decision. It simply means we loved it deeply.

Building a life takes longer than unpacking boxes.

I’m remembering to slow down just enough to let the unfamiliar become familiar.

To embrace the unknown.

To laugh at myself while making endless laps around the grocery store looking for the spice aisle.

Because the kindest thing we can do is allow ourselves to be in the in-between—to let grief and hope share the same space.

Then, one day, almost without noticing, the unknown becomes known.

That stranger at the dog park becomes a neighbor.

The hiking group leader who greeted me like I'd been coming for years becomes a face I’m excited to see.

The spice aisle becomes found with ease.

The sky, somehow finding fifty shades of purple every single evening, becomes that daily invitation to pause.

Home isn't something we find all at once.

It's something we cultivate.

The truth is, when we drove away that day in June, it felt like I was saying goodbye to a version of myself I had spent thirteen years becoming.

For a while there, I believed I had left her behind.

But then I remembered—

The truth is, home is also the woman those thirteen years shaped.

The woman who learned to sit with uncertainty without rushing to fix it.

The woman who learned to love the quiet and embrace stillness.

The woman who weathered hard seasons and discovered she was more resilient than she imagined.

The woman who built meaningful relationships, found her voice, raised a family, created a practice, and learned to trust herself.

The truth is, I didn't leave her in Rhode Island.

She’s come with me.

In many ways, she is the one carrying me now.