It feels like this post has been a long time coming.

I attempted to write it last month, but the words weren’t ready, and where, a year ago, I would have forced them out, I decided to wait. To listen. To jot down a few notes and just allow.

Last week, I deleted all the notes. Blank slate. Fresh eyes.

The longer I sit with my new reality—the one where I am always witnessing how Love transcends death—the less I’m able to express with my usual vocabulary. I wrap up client work for the day and feel pulled into dancing, baking, or walking in the setting sun. I’ve put other creative projects on the back burner to accommodate those things.

Of course, none of the above resembles grief. When my friends ask me how I’m holding up, I struggle to convey that (*stares at unfinished sentence for five minutes*) the hardest part is over. I spent all of 2022 in what Anne Shirley so accurately termed “the depths of despair.” With the exception of a few weeks in December, when I cycled through the seven stages for the second time, I’ve been operating from acceptance since November—prior to my mom’s passing.

It’s not that I’m never sad. It’s not that I’m not opting out of Mother’s Day emails as fast as my thumbs can manage. (I used to think that was a ridiculous feature. My sincerest apologies. I understand now.) But I have been graciously and wholly supported by my community—by Life—through this loss, and now, I feel ready to move forward.

Anything & Everything

Last July, I discovered that Colorado is my home. After 15 years there, that fact was evident to most people—except me.

I spent so many years conceptualizing home that I failed to acknowledge my own. And by the time I left, en route to Pennsylvania, I felt completely and utterly rootless.

All things considered, I would not change my decision to move to PA. It enabled me to support my family during the most difficult season of our lives and to hold my mom’s hand every day until she ascended.

But in retrospect, my options were very limited last summer, for myriad reasons. It’s still a little distressing to recall the absolute state of upheaval that ensued when my mother, already terminally ill, started calling the shots that ultimately led to her passing. We all knew something was wrong—we just didn’t have the capacity to pump the brakes.

God knows, all my hazard lights were on.

And yet, there were still mornings when I woke up in my sunshine-soaked PA room and thought, Here I am, capable of adapting, grounding, and living independently.

And if I can find my center in the midst of the hardest loss I have ever and will ever experience—

Damn. I can do anything. We are nothing if not resilient.

Plans & Prayers

There are plenty of fluffy ways to announce this, and I think I’ve tried them all. But finding home hasn’t been a fluffy thing for me, so I’ll just tell you.

I’m moving back to Colorado in two weeks.

(Wow, that felt good.)

Through a series of events that can only be called miraculous, I am returning to the place where I feel a deep sense of belonging.

I had it all planned out. At the beginning of March, I would begin looking for a roommate, someone who wouldn’t be put off by my ever-increasing passion for health and wellness in a world that often dismisses both. I didn’t know who that person was or where I would find them. If I would find them. But I knew I had to try.

To my dismay, on the day I planned to start asking around my network, something felt… off. I had a Facebook post typed up and ready, and I couldn’t go through with it. There was something taking shape, something I couldn’t quite reach, and as frustrating as it was, I saved my post and went to sleep.

As I closed my eyes, I whispered, “Help me out here, Mom.”

Less than 24 hours later, I got a message from a friend, asking me if I was still living in CO. I realized we hadn’t talked in quite a while, and in the process of catching up, we learned that we were both looking for a roommate… in the same city… at the same time of year. Our interior design styles are strikingly similar. And when I held my breath and asked, I learned that our views on low-tox living are the same.

It’s been all paperwork and cardboard boxes and WOW, I AM GOING HOME from there.

From & Toward

I’m currently reading the final chapter of Power vs. Force, a book that has changed the way I view body, mind, and soul, and the relationship between all three. One of my key takeaways is that we, as humans, very rarely experience pure, unadulterated joy. Behind many a good thing is the fear that it will be short-lived or snatched away.

As soon as this move was real, it was scary. Moving across the country is a huge undertaking, and this is the first time I’ve chosen it—I mean really chosen it. I’ve lived in CO twice, for a cumulative 15 years, but this is the first time it’s been my decision.

Thankfully, I no longer fear being wrong; I celebrate it. But I still felt unsure.

“What if I’m running from Pennsylvania?” I said to my doctor. “It would be easy at this point.”

And he said something interesting that I now remind myself of all the time: “Running from something and running toward something are two very different things.”

When I look into the future, I don’t see a life where I never return to the northeast—not at all. In fact, I’ll be back in June for my mom’s celebration of life. I have family and friends spread across the region. I will always come back.

But for now, I’m going home.

Photo by krystina rogers on Unsplash