On leaving the city.
“And suddenly you know: It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”
If you’ve been reading for a while, you may have sensed a shift. In the tone. In the pace. In the earthiness that’s started to show up in the sentences. I’ve been writing from somewhere else lately, and today, I want to tell you why.
After nearly 20 years in the city, we are getting ready to pack up and move out. Not because we don’t love it, we do. This city is where we built our life. It’s where we raised our babies and found our people. Where a community held us through the seasons of new life and loss, through sickness and celebration, heartache and hope, success and letting go. The sidewalks are familiar, we know every crack and bump. The local restaurant knows our drink order. The pace, though hectic, has been ours.
In so many ways, we grew up here.
But last Fall, over a year after selling our business, we felt an intense, inescapable question bubbling up: What’s next? And our answer was something different. Riskier. Quieter. Something closer to family. More grounded, literally and figuratively.
So we decided to move to the country, not to escape, but to begin again. To create something with our hands. To give our kids more space to run and ourselves more space to breathe.
These days, I’m setting up garden beds and re-learning patience (something I’ve never been great at) as I wait for my seeds to sprout. Suddenly, I really care about the weather and if the temperature is going to drop below 10°c. I’m learning how to use power tools. I’m bumping around on a riding lawn mower, and I’ve got mulch in my hair, my boots, even in my teeth. I wake up to motion alerts from deer, raccoons, coyotes and strange waddling creatures I can’t even identify.
My hands are scratched, there’s dirt under my gel manicure, we’re waiting in excitement for our apple blossoms to bloom, and my heart is so full. I’ve never felt more like my family is exactly where they need to be.
We’re building toward long-term hope: a garden in bloom, fruit trees heavy with harvest, a root cellar filled with canned produce to carry us through the winter. Eggs from our neighbours, kids chasing bugs in the tall grass, faces smudged with dirt and joy. It will be a ton of work and we’ll have to learn a lot, but that’s exactly the point.
Not everyone will understand this choice, and that’s okay. It doesn’t have to make sense to everyone. It just has to feel right to us. We’re not running away from something, we’re growing toward something. Something slower. Something simpler. Something real.
We are leaving the city. But we are taking our love, our lessons, and our people with us. And now, with our hands in the dirt and eyes on the horizon, we begin again. The work is just starting, but the view is already worth it. Stay tuned, there’s so much more to come from the farmhouse.
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