The Girl Who Kept Moving

Brian has told you his version of how all this started. This is mine. We lived the same years, made the same decisions, got on the same planes — but we did not feel them the same way, and I think that’s exactly why we both write here.

So let me start where my story actually starts, which is a long way from a beach.

I moved my entire childhood

I grew up moving. Pennsylvania, then Connecticut, then Rhode Island, then Florida for about eight years, and then back to Pennsylvania. If that sounds like a lot, it was. Moving around that much as a kid was really, really hard for me. You get good at saying goodbye before you’re old enough to understand why you keep having to.

My family situation was complicated, too. My relationship with my mom is its own thing. I had three different father figures growing up, and four different stretches of my life where I had someone in that role. So “home” was never a fixed place for me. It was a moving target my whole childhood.

The one constant I had — and still have — is my best friend since fifth grade. When you move as much as I did, a friendship that survives all of it becomes sacred. That tells you something about how much roots mean to me.

Pennsylvania is where I finally stopped

Here’s the part that matters. When I landed back in Pennsylvania as an adult, something clicked into place that never had before. That’s where my comfort was. That’s where my roots went down. I had amazing friends. And I finally had the kind of family I’d never really had growing up — close, near me, mine.

Then I met Brian. We built our dream home a short drive from my parents. For a girl who spent her childhood packing boxes, that was the perfect-case scenario. I had the people, the place, the stability, all of it, in one spot, for the first time in my life.

For years it was just the two of us in that big house, and honestly it felt big and empty. Then we had our two kids and it felt full and exciting. And still — and I’ve sat with this a lot — there was always something missing. I’ll probably never know exactly what it was. Maybe it was the travel itch. Maybe it was the Pennsylvania winters, which are long and gray and cold and just wear on you. I don’t know.

So why would I be the one to leave?

This is the question I want to be honest about, because it’s the heart of my whole story and it’s where Brian and I are completely different people.

Brian left home young and basically never went back. College, the military, Maine, Pennsylvania — he was already far from his family for years by the time we met. Leaving is in his bones. It doesn’t cost him much.

It costs me everything. I am the one who finally, after a lifetime of moving, got to stop moving. I got the roots, the family, the best friend down the road, the house near my parents. And then we decided to leave it.

People assume the hesitant one in a story like this is the homebody who never wanted adventure. That’s not me. I wanted the adventure badly. The hard part wasn’t the wanting — it was that I, of all people, knew exactly what I’d be walking away from, because I’d spent my whole childhood wishing I had it.

What I’ve learned about roots

Here’s where I’ve landed, at least for now. Roots aren’t a house. I thought they were — I thought roots were the dream home near my parents, and if I left the house I’d lose the roots.

But the roots came with us. My family is still my family from six time zones or a two-hour flight away. My best friend since fifth grade is still my best friend. The people who came to visit us abroad gave me some of the most meaningful time I’ve ever had with them. I didn’t lose any of it by leaving. I just stopped letting a zip code hold it for me.

I’m not going to pretend that was an easy thing to learn, or that I’ve learned it all the way. I’m a girl who spent her whole life wanting to stop moving, and now I move on purpose. Some days that still feels strange.

But I think that’s the whole point of this blog — two people, same trip, telling you the truth about how differently it lands. Brian will tell you the version where leaving is freedom. This is the version where leaving costs something, and you do it anyway, because what you’re walking toward is worth it.

— Katie