Rooted Pages

Chapter 1: wtf are we even doing

There are two types of people in this world: those who enjoy moving and those who have actually done it with children, two dogs, a cat, and a marriage that’s been through 13 years of LIFE.

Guess which one I am. 

Let me paint the scene: it’s July. Our Colorado mountain town is buzzing with tourists in Patagonia gear and optimism. Meanwhile, our family of four is trying to Marie Kondo our way through a house that hasn’t seen a free closet shelf since 2017. Every room is a cardboard jungle. Someone can’t find their toothbrush, the cat is stress-shedding, and I’m explaining (for the fourth time) why we cannot take an entire drawer of mismatched socks “just in case.” 

This Wasn’t Just a Move

This is a shift. A total uprooting. A “we’re leaving the life we know to chase something better for our family” kind of leap. And even though we made this choice with intention, that doesn’t mean it didn’t wreck me a little.

I cried when we sold the house. Not because I loved the carpet (I didn’t—it was heinous), but because that was the house where my babies learned to walk. Where snow days turned into science fairs. Where we survived toddler meltdowns, tween mood swings, and so many firsts. It was the fort that held us down during government shutdowns, the metaphorical moat between us and the rest of the world whenever we needed. 

It was the house that held our chaos, loved us and kept us safe through it. 

But lately, the walls have started to feel too tight. Not just from the physical clutter, but from the sense that we’ve outgrown more than just our square footage. Our dreams, our kids, even our arguments have gotten too big for this little mountain town. We’ve done our time here in snow boots and small-town politics, and now it’s time for something else.

So—we’re doing something wild. We’re renting a Cruise America RV and U-Haul, convoying like a wagon train headed east, and we’re leaving behind the familiar for something fresh. A new chapter with salty air instead of alpine snow.

And we’re not going alone. My best friend of 16 years—our honorary auntie, family by choice—is coming with us. Her kids, who might as well share our DNA at this point, will be part of this rolling circus, and I couldn’t be more grateful. My kids will have cousins for the road, laughter in the chaos, and another grown-up who knows how to parent them when I inevitably hit my limit around Ohio.

There’s a sweetness to this start. Yes, there’s grief tangled in the goodbyes, but also a spark of excitement we haven’t felt in a long time. We’re heading east to be closer to my husband’s family, to reconnect with roots we’ve missed for years.  It feels right in a way that’s hard to explain—like all the messy pieces of life are finally lining up just enough to say: “Go. Try again. See what happens.”

So, that’s where we are. Somewhere between what we’re leaving and what we’re chasing. Part one of this move is mostly cardboard, tears, and shit ton of microwave meals, but also courage and conviction, from every being in this family unit and I could not be more proud.

And honestly? I think we’re just getting started.