Every time I leave a place for the last time, I get this urge to say something about it. The need to give weight to the time spent there. An acknowledgement of the person I was there. A tribute, if you will, to that particular chapter of life.

There’s a quote I heard recently that I believe captures this perfectly.
Joan Didion says, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down.”

As I’ve spent these last few months preparing for yet another move, this time from Houston to Washington D.C., I’ve found myself reflecting on my time in Texas, struggling to put this particular chapter into words.

The first move from the Midwest to Alaska, I wasn’t ready. It was so foreign from what I had been around my whole life. As my husband likes to say, it’s hard to get an Omaha girl out of Omaha. I ended up loving life in Alaska, and told myself that was probably the craziest it was going to get… and then we moved to rural Japan.

Japan was never on my list of places to visit. It wasn’t even a thought in my mind. Once again though, I ended up loving where I lived. Honestly, my Japan years were some of the happiest of my life. After that, I told myself it didn’t matter where we lived, as long as we were together. Of course, life had other plans.

Being together this time wasn’t a choice, but where I went was. I could have stayed in Las Vegas. I could have gone anywhere, but I chose Texas. It’s the first true choice I’ve made in the past 10 years since I said “I do.” I chose to be with family and save money. I committed to the long distance friendships.

Going in, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Here was a brand new city without my dearest adventure buddy. So I made a plan. I would live the most life I possibly could.

I would do all of the things, see all of the sights and roam as far as I could.
I would drink everything in and savor every last drop of Texas.

Which is exactly what I did, with a little help from the roommates (aka parents) and permanent best friends (read: brother and his loving wife). These fine folks found out first-hand what my husband has known, and subsequently been the lone victim of, for the past decade — if there are 24 hours in a day, I will schedule an activity for every waking moment I am not required to be somewhere.

If it meant getting up at 5 a.m. to drive downtown and cheer me on for yet another run, they were there with coffee cup and sign in hand. Or driving through three hours of severe thunderstorms so I could see the bluebonnets, they had the car gassed and ready. Or trudging along on a 10-mile hike so I could have the ultimate camping adventure, they packed extra snacks and water. Or standing for hours so I could see my favorite artist perform on my birthday, they wore their most supportive shoes and ignored the pain in their knees, knowing I didn’t have anyone else to be my plus one. I won’t even get started on the compromises made (with minimal complaints) accommodating the 130 pounds of dog I brought along for the ride.

All of these moments and memories made this year go by so quickly. Sure, there were the challenging days and weeks where I was pretty pissed about how it all went down. Who honestly looks forward to spending more than a year without their spouse? Looking back a year later, I know I made the right choice. I got to see my family more than I have since I graduated college. I found an inner sense of self and experienced an amount of personal growth I don’t think would have happened otherwise. And I got to do all of this as a tourist living in a pretty cool city.

Texas is where I got to do my radio thing for the first time in a major market. It’s where I discovered the beauty of working from home. Where I earned the title of marathoner. And learned the importance of a good food truck at a brewery. It’s where I saw so many beautiful new parks and wildflowers and learned how to properly tube a river.

Not every chapter is long, but that doesn’t make them any less important.
Texas wasn’t just good — it was the best choice.