LEAVING HOME

Leaving California for Georgia wasn’t a journey I expected to embark on willingly. After Santa Cruz, everywhere seemed like a hard sell. The picturesque, coastal town dotted by mountains and redwoods is close to perfect. A seven year stint was long enough to feel like a local but short enough to maintain a twinkle in my eye when the special things became routine. Magic was easy to spot in my neighborhood. I was convinced anywhere else would fall short. 

Academia is a competitive job market to enter. Jordan spread his applications across the country. We both assumed the hiring process would be a long one with the possibility of reapplying into the following semester or year. We’ve seen it happen before but neither of us minded. It bought us more time in the place we loved. 

Things moved quicker than expected. He accepted a job offer in July while still interviewing with a few other schools. We only had a month to pack up our lives and move across the country. 

Under normal circumstances, a partner earning their PhD and entering a career in a field they love would call for celebration. Well-intentioned congratulations and best wishes from loved ones were undercut with grief. Sadness became coupled with guilt. Georgia wasn’t either of our top picks. For me, it was a breakup that didn’t end on my terms. I left kicking and screaming. 

In 2016, Jordan accepted a spot in a philosophy PhD program where we made a similar journey in reverse. From North Carolina to California, we packed the little we had into the trunk of my car with Forest and Hunter in the backseat. Each day we’d unzip the tent door to a different state. Not having a forwarding address or hardly any belongings to my name was romantic. My fearless mid-20’s mentality left me without a care in the world. What occupied that space of wonder in my thirties was an aching homesickness I couldn’t shake. I cried halfway across the country. 

A big part of my identity was wrapped in the woods. The slow lifestyle. The 600 square ft cabin. Towering redwoods. The smell of fresh pine stabilized my nervous system. Without these things, I was unmoored. In no mood to rough it in my delicate state, we booked whatever dog-friendly hotel we could find off the highway. 

Jordan’s career aside, we wanted to be closer to family. Georgia was the conveniently situated “in between” of loved ones: Mine rooted in Florida; Jordan’s in South Carolina. They were our North Star during the weary journey. 

My sweet in-laws generously offered their cozy book-shelf walled guest room until we found a place to land. Immediately I unpacked our bedspread and my favorite candle. If you can’t sleep in your own bed, sleeping on familiar smelling sheets is the next best thing. 

His family lives two and a half hours from Atlanta in a beautiful rural wooded area similar to our old neighborhood. Loved ones were in my periphery and, once again, so were the Applalachian mountains. Despite working remotely, those few weeks almost felt like vacation. A time to heal and regain my footing. Under the same warm roof, we shared home cooked meals, long walks and movie nights in between searching Zillow. 

The first couple of houses we toured were immediate “no’s”. One smelled so strongly of smoke that I had a headache by the time I got to the bedrooms. We drove past another desolate-looking listing where every other house on the street had a boarded up window or foreclosure sign. The third house was tucked in a suburb similar to the ones we grew up in in Florida—  insert: generic plazas, cookie cutter houses and manicured lawns. A copy and paste of what we were hoping to avoid. 

We decided to regroup at a coffee shop. Navigation routed us to a charming town outside of Atlanta. Suddenly we were canopied under miles of tree-lined streets and parks on every corner. The “Welcome to Decatur” sign was a marking of green space, quaint local businesses and so many people out walking their dogs. It reminded me of Stars Hollow and for the first time since leaving California, I could picture laying down roots. We narrowed our Zillow search moving our target closer to the area we just discovered— a town I later learned is known for their local festivals and impressive dining scene. A coffee shop brought us to Decatur. The strong sense of community made us want to stay. 

A listing for a mid-century redbrick popped up on my Zillow notifications like Christmas morning. Because of the walkability to the town square, the landlord was only showing the property that weekend. We eagerly hopped on the opportunity and were the second to schedule a tour.  All the houses running along the historic neighborhood were unique– a mixture of charming Tudors, bungalows and artisan homes with a few modern flips in the mix. It was the type of neighborhood Jordan and I would seek out on “date-walks” dating back to college. He’d have his coffee, I’d peek into people’s gardens while playing hypothetical House Hunters. Here we were, doing it in real life.

A good energy surrounded the house as soon as we stepped inside. It had 3x more square footage than our cabin— more space than we knew what to do with. The mostly blank canvas was broken up by a powder blue Jack- and-Jill bathroom and baby pink main bathroom hinting at its age. It was like a nod to our quirky 70’s avocado tub in the cabin. Old houses have character. Stories that give it life. I wanted so badly to be a small part of this one. During the tour we learned the property manager studied Philosophy at Harvard. It was our in. He and Jordan geeked out about their dissertations and mutual acquaintances in the field. I really think it made our application stand out. 

It’s no surprise that Jordan would acclimate to the change of scenery. All the moving he’s experienced in childhood set him up to be a pro at adapting. He could be happy anywhere. It’s one of the traits I admire most about him. Letting go and starting fresh never came as natural, personally. I find change terrifying, even when it’s good for me. I was convinced my adjustment would take months to a year, if at all. 

In the funny way life works, the uncertainty I packed with me from Santa Cruz melted away into excitement. With house keys in hand, I could exhale. Nesting with sentimental reminders of home mixed with lucky Facebook marketplace finds filled the blank space with so much warmth. Looking around, it felt like us. I’m enjoying the process of watching the place come together, room by room.  

My new town shares a lot of things I loved about Santa Cruz and even checks off a few boxes that Santa Cruz was missing. The dogs now have the backyard I always promised them. We can walk to breakfast and grab coffee in the time it took to drive out of our old neighborhood to the nearest stoplight. I’ve seen family more in a few months than I’ve been able to in years. So far, we’ve celebrated a few birthdays and Thanksgiving together. The “just cause” visits have been the biggest luxury. Moving at the cusp of summer and fall helped expedite the transition. My mood is always better during the -ber months. A long time dream of mine was to live in a festive neighborhood that shares a love of Halloween. I lost count of the trick or treaters that stopped at our doorstep. Currently, Christmas trees are glowing from almost every window. 

I traded 100 year old redwoods for impressive maples that gleam orange. I didn’t learn this until recently but they call Atlanta the city in a forest. As Gilbert, a wise prior neighbor said before the move, “the way to look at change is not a matter of better or worse, just different.”

Uprooting as an adult has taught me that magic can be found anywhere, even the places we don’t anticipate. The more we’re willing to look, the more we’re bound to find it. Decatur opened my heart to change in a way I could’ve easily overlooked. 

A common occurrence when I lived in the cabin was feeling a rush of bittersweetness before a vacation. Regardless of where I was going or for how long, there was an intense eagerness to come home. To get back to my life and the nest. It was my litmus test that I lived somewhere special and that was never more true than in California. The feeling resurfaced recently when I left town for a cousin’s wedding. I couldn’t wait to get back to the comforts of the redbrick and neighborhood date walks. To visit our local bagel shop where they know our order. Just four months ago, I doubted that feeling would return. I’ve never been more happy to be wrong.