Wherever You Go, Be There

I’ve moved a lot—chasing dreams, following love, starting over. Enough times that packing tape and cardboard feel like an old, familiar routine. Enough times that sometimes I forget where I left pieces of myself—tiny echoes in apartments and driveways across different zip codes.

I was born and raised in Texas—first Arlington, then Weatherford. Those early years were filled with mud pies, sweet tea, thunderstorms, and long car rides to nowhere in particular. I can still feel that sticky summer air clinging to everything.

After high school, I packed up and moved to Sacramento, California. That move felt bold, like I was finally becoming someone new. I chased different versions of myself across cities—College Station, back to Sacramento, and eventually to Seattle, where Grant and I started building another new life together. This life has taken us to a few neighborhoods and most recently brought us here to Wenatchee, in the heart of central Washington.

Every place we’ve lived has had its own rhythm, its own way of settling into my bones.

Moving is a strange kind of grief. It’s not just the stress of packing or the never-ending lists—it’s that aching realization that you won’t be in this exact place, with these exact people, at this exact time ever again. It’s the lump in your throat when you lock the door one final time and pull out of the driveway. It’s knowing that your favorite walking route, the weird little crack in the sidewalk, your best friend down the street—those things don’t come with you.

Each move leaves behind more than furniture or old curtains. It leaves behind a version of me. I always find myself flooded with memories I didn’t realize I’d tucked away: the way light hit the kitchen counter in the mornings, or the spot in the yard where our dog liked to nap. That neighbor who always gave me updates on his vegetable garden.

Every time I leave, I wish I had stayed present a little more. I wish I had laughed more freely, said what I meant, taken more photos, lingered in conversations, put my phone down, paid attention. But I am wired for movement. For worry. For wondering what’s next.

When we left our home in Bothell last week, I was in a rush. Emotionally and literally. I have just been feeling so ready to feel settled. I didn’t hug the neighbors I loved so dearly. I didn’t collect the rocks in the backyard that my daughter loved to stack. I didn’t sit on the back porch one last time and watch the sun go down. And I wish I had.

Transitions always reveal the soft spots in me—the should-haves, the what-ifs. I carry a lot of those. I wish I had been more present. That’s the honest truth. I’m not always great at slowing down. I’m anxious. I’m impatient. I get caught in the spiral of to-dos and timelines and all the things I can’t control. Moving always magnifies that. It shows me how much I miss by being in my head.

But I’m learning—and maybe I’ll have to learn it again and again: wherever I go, I want to be there. Not just physically. Emotionally. Mentally. I want to notice the smell of the air, the way the sun hits the trees in the afternoon, the sound of my daughter’s laughter echoing in our new space.

Because this chapter, this now, will one day be another goodbye. Another box of memories I wish I had lived a little more fully.

So this is my gentle reminder to myself, and maybe to you too—

Wherever you go, be there.

Because life is full of change. But home? Home is something we build every day, moment by moment, by being fully here.

And right now… this is home.

Let yourself belong.

Let this be enough.

Let this be home.