A Letter to Myself, Three Years Later

red and white stipe set / watering can

It’s been three years since we packed up our family’s life in Florida and moved to the quiet mountains of western North Carolina. But long before the packing and the quiet goodbyes, there were hard conversations, self-doubt, and loneliness.

See, the thing is, I first approached my husband in the summer of 2022 about moving permanently to what had been our family’s summer vacation spot. Nick was used to my wild ideas by then; usually they involved a new business venture or a real estate investment. Not bringing our whole life to a halt and pivoting to something completely foreign.

I was a born-and-raised Florida girl. I grew up in Sarasota, just walking distance from the world-famous Siesta Key beach. Weekends usually meant the water. I had a career selling luxury real estate; my husband was a custom home builder. On paper, we had everything we were supposed to want. That’s the part no one warns you about—that you can build the life you’re “supposed” to have and still feel like something’s missing.

The truth was, I was exhausted by the life I had built. And I might never have known it if I hadn’t had the privilege of hanging up my hat for six weeks each summer. The first two weeks in the mountains were spent anxiously checking my phone and email, but by week three I had finally let go. Family dinners on the back porch. Long nights of UNO. Midday hikes and swimming in the lake with the kids. We were living. And by “we,” I mean myself and our two daughters—Nick went back and forth between work and weekends in the mountains while the girls and I lived in our tiny summer bubble.

I won’t pretend that living separate lives for those six weeks was easy, or that it didn’t come with some animosity. But I was tired enough to be selfish. And in those six weeks, I was clear-headed enough to see just how exhausted my own husband was, too.

The end of summer 2022 came, and the hard conversations followed. I remember my exact words to him: “My heart lives in the mountains. I only live in Sarasota to work.” Nick is a creature of habit, so change doesn’t come easy for him—but he knew something in our life had to give, and that staying put would change nothing. We started having quiet conversations about what moving would actually look like: what would need to happen, how much we needed to save, how our lives might unfold from there. These were the hard but good conversations. What most people don’t think about is the loneliness. We pulled back from social obligations and events, mostly because we were carrying a secret we weren’t ready to share.

And then, once we decided to leave the life we knew and try something new, things began to fall into place with an ease I still can’t fully explain. The girls were accepted to school. Our home sold in two days. We had an accepted offer on our dream piece of property. None of it felt forced—it felt like doors opening one after another, almost faster than we could walk through them. I don’t take that lightly. When something that big unfolds that smoothly, it’s hard not to feel the hand of God in it. That doesn’t mean the fear disappeared. Even with everything lining up, the doubt still crept in. We kept the news private as we spent months closing up our businesses.

I want to be clear about something: I changed. The summer of 2022 changed me. It wasn’t that my hometown did anything wrong—the town I grew up in and I had simply grown apart. And here’s what I learned. People around you don’t always like change. And sometimes they really don’t like a change that makes them question their own choices. Keeping our move private for as long as we could was how we protected our peace in the decision we’d made. I will never regret that—and if you’re sitting on a dream right now, hold it close until you’re ready.

Three years has felt fast and slow all at once. Our family’s story is still unfolding, but the children are thriving, Nick is doing what he loves, and I’m finding myself all over again.

So here’s my note to myself, three years later—and maybe to you, if you needed to read it. Just do it. Take the leap, because you’re about to see how sweet life can be. There will be ups and downs, but the people who matter most are right there with you. You find yourself again. You build a new career. You live. You’re still busy raising kids and doing life, but now it’s done with intention. Family dinners are back. You cook almost every night. You get chickens, and a dog too. You have lunch every day with your best friend, Nick. Life feels safe, and full, and exciting again.

If your heart is whispering something to you the way mine was, don’t let the fear talk you out of it. The leap is scary. The landing is worth it.

stripe set watering can