Three weeks ago my family left our St. Louis city home and arrived at the rural plains of Wyoming, the home of our childhood.
(2600 Penn Street)
My life has been everything but manicured the last two months. The dust is finally settling and I can breathe a bit easier. While the stress of moving 1200 miles (with a 7 mo old) in a few short weeks was burden enough—there was also the internal processing of leaving the life we knew behind. Moving. Was. Hard.
(The view from our front porch, looking down the street)
In seven years we had built a life and community we loved. I moved to St. Louis just after graduating college. In my twenties—I started my professional career, went from single to married, bought my first home, and became a mother. In the shadow of that famous arch, I grew up.
(One of the gorgeous old mansions just blocks from our house)
Suddenly I have regret. Did I spend enough time with the people there? Could I have made a bigger impact? Will the city miss me? Was my scope of influence too small? Did I take advantage of all the great things that this city had to offer? Did I shop at Target enough? < Actually, yes. Yes to that last one. I shopped there way too much.
(View down the street)
I now have much respect for those that, for whatever reason, have to pick up their lives and move often. It’s a lot of work. And maybe roots go a little deeper each year, making it a little bit harder. But I don’t regret those roots. That city and the time spent there will always be special to me. So many great memories.
And now I look up and see a big sky. A really big sky. Which is fun. I may never have to parallel park again. Also fun. New adventures await, and I embrace them.