I’ve moved… again.
But this time, it feels different.

For the first time, I moved toward something, rather than running away.
For years, my life had a pattern: escape, restart, repeat.

That pattern began in 2007, when I met my now ex-husband, moved in with him during college, got engaged, graduated, and relocated to Florida.

Somewhere in the chaos of it all, I adopted a painful belief that I was a disappointment, that I was broken in some unfixable way.

That season eventually ended, and I moved back home to Texas. It felt like a reset. A fresh start.

But what followed was a cycle of survival-mode living. 

With every new chapter, new city, new apartment, job, relationship, I wasn't really beginning again. 

I was escaping. I was searching for relief. For peace.

For something outside of myself that could make the discomfort go away.

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When things got too hard, I left.
When I felt unseen, I disappeared.
When life stretched me, I retreated.

And now, looking back over the past decade, I can see it clearly: every ending was just a quieter version of running.

Starting over didn’t always mean healing; it meant I was still searching for something I hadn't yet found within myself.

But this move is different.
This time, I’m not escaping.
I’m arriving.

Perhaps it was all part of coming home to my Self.