“You must love putting everything in boxes and taking it back out.”
It was July 2020, soon after we had moved from Denver to Boulder—and less than a year since selling our charming rambler in Wisconsin. The distinct snarky undertone in the text message was expected from my friend’s casually sarcastic demeanor; however, struck a raw nerve.
It felt rehearsed and implied that, in his view, we had become transient vagabonds who would never be satisfied anywhere we moved.
My inner voice was hollering “am not!” with a defiant scoff and eye-roll of a teenager from our two-bedroom apartment, toward him 1,000 miles northeast; in hopes he’d telepathically hear me while likely lounging in his recliner inside his cozy rural Wisconsin home.
Our chosen willingness to meticulously pack our cherished things that make anyplace feel like home, spend hours playing moving-box Tetris in shipping containers and U-Haul trucks to schlep cross-country or cross-state; followed by weeks of living in a disaster of partially unpacked boxes, whilst crossing our fingers that those we shared walls with weren’t horrible, was commonly misunderstood. These choices were viewed as fickle restlessness by some, but were deliberate and intentional in our reality.
Amidst a year and seven months of exploring terrains and communities along the Colorado Front Range—at times feeling we were desperately searching for our home like the hatchling bird from the children’s book, Are You My Mother?—we found a place that checked all the boxes.
Fort Collins had the hiking trails we could traverse as a family, biking trail system we could take advantage of solo, and it was just right in size of a city to not feel overwhelming while exuding a vibrant sense of place with everything we’d ever need locally. Rocky Mountain National Park was a stone’s throw away. The Children’s Hospital in Denver, one of the top five in the U.S., wasn’t a terribly long drive down I-25—if/when Leo needed it. Our newly constructed townhome sat along a shared green-space with front courtyards of neighbors—potential friends—lining the perimeter. We envisioned summer nights out front in our patio furniture as a family, caring for container gardens of pollinator-friendly flowers, and developing close relationships within this newly established suburban pocket of town.
The feelings of elation after finding the place were true. Almost daily hikes and nature walks year-round allowed us to know the local trails like the back of our hands. We had our favorite Colorado-style pizza joint and phenomenal Indian cuisine available for takeout in under ten minutes. Rocky Mountain picnics and sunsets could be planned with ease the evening before. Many lifelong friendships were cultivated while connecting between the hip-height fences of outdoor spaces and sidewalk strolls. It was the place we were meant to spend the most bittersweet year of our life—genuinely experiencing the highest highs, followed by the lowest low, cradled in community.
Having sold our once-beloved home to hastily move 1,200 miles northwest to Portland, Oregon, all to pack it all up and move again eight months later, it’s tough to ignore the humor in my reaction toward my friend’s playful banter. Because in a way, he’s right.
Maybe moving is our hobby—at least, for now.
Maybe I do love “putting everything in boxes and taking it back out,” just as he had said three years and three moves ago.
There’s a long story worth telling eventually, detailing how we’ve found ourselves saying yes to adventure once again. Thanks to a rug-ripped-out-from-under-us opportunity in the best way, we’ll be moving to a rural area on an island, with a fifteen-minute drive to any convenience or amenity—aside from beaches, hiking trails and farm stands.
While our new home is another rental, and not where we’ll end up long term, I’m looking forward to the promise of new experiences.
>> Immersing ourselves in a unique environment, living in a beach house where we’ll be able to see whales migrating from our deck.
>> Enjoying the lack of traffic and serenity of quiet, thanks to the lack of freeway noise.
>> Getting to know many local sustainable farmers.
>> Utilizing the opportunity to fully unpack our belongings, but also our emotions as we nudge ourselves further in grieving the loss of our son.
>> Slowing down to speed up, while taking it easy to enjoy life as it happens.
>> Fine tuning our health and life’s purpose-driven intentions.
>> Creating relationships amongst neighbors in our small beachside community.
>> Setting our travel bucket-list down to focus on staying local, with plans to learn a new area like the back of our hand.
>> Playing in Mount Baker Wilderness, North Cascades National Park, Olympic National Park, San Juan Islands and Southern British Columbia.
>> Finding inspiration in our day to day to bring our dream of Leo’s books to life.
By mid-March, over the past eight years, Ryan and I will have lovingly considered ourselves at home in seven different places, scattered across five different states. We’re tired—but every move on this journey has been worth it. I have a feeling we’ll stay here a while, knowing this home will be the place in its own beautiful way, for whatever’s meant to unfold for us next.
While it’s exciting, I’m not going to sugarcoat how stressful, time-consuming, and overwhelming moves are for us. That said, I will be taking a month off from this newsletter, thoughtfully sacrificing quantity rather than quality. And, prioritizing peace to feel invigorated and refreshed on the other side—opposed to my usual post-move M.O., being left burnt out and depleted.
I’ll be looking forward to returning to your inbox on 3/19, with an update and new perspective from our adventure on Washington State’s Whidbey Island! Thank you for being here, along for the ride with us.
Can’t wait to follow along on your new adventures! Your new home sounds magical!
So very excited and happy for you Lewann!
I can’t wait to see the photos you will share, just like your words they capture my interest and my heart. Happy moving, island life sounds amazing ❤️