The Reality

There’s a strange kind of tension that lives in the in-between.

The space where your heart is already reaching forward—but your feet are still firmly planted in the life you’ve known.

That’s where I’ve been living lately.

While we are so genuinely excited about what’s ahead for us in Greenville, South Carolina, our present reality has been layered, emotional, and honestly… a little heavy.

Because for us to go, we have to let go.

And letting go of this home hasn’t been simple.

This house has been nothing short of a gift to our family. It’s where Oliver has grown from a baby into a little boy with opinions and imagination and a laugh that fills every room. It’s where we brought Ruby home—tiny, new, and completely ours—walking through these doors as a family of four for the very first time.

These walls have held so much life.

Slow mornings. Bedtime routines. The ordinary, sacred rhythms that somehow become everything.

It’s not just the home itself—though even that feels hard to leave behind. The custom trim work, the quiet privacy of our lot, the way the light hits in the evenings. It’s the kind of place you don’t stumble upon twice.

But even more than that, it’s the life that exists around it.

The neighbors who became friends—the kind you don’t have to plan with, the kind you just do life with. The impromptu conversations, the borrowed cups of sugar, the kids playing until the sun disappears.

And just a short drive away—family.

Family dinners that turned into a rhythm. A constant. Something we didn’t have to think about, just something we got to show up for. Week after week.

There’s a weight to knowing that all of that is about to change.

That this chapter is closing in a very real, very final way.

Once we hand over the keys, we don’t get to come back.

And I feel that.

Deeply.

I didn’t quite expect how much it would hit me—but I find myself crying at the most random times. Folding laundry. Washing dishes. Sitting in a quiet room after the kids go to bed.

It just comes in waves.

Because even though I know—I really know—that what lies ahead is good… it doesn’t take away from how much I’ve loved what’s right here.

And maybe that’s the tension of it all.

Holding excitement in one hand, and grief in the other.

At the same time, life doesn’t pause to let us process it slowly.

We’re still working full-time. Still raising two little ones. Still caring for a dog who has no idea what’s coming. And in every spare pocket of time, we’re packing, cleaning, donating, organizing—trying to make this home look like a place someone else can picture their life in.

It’s exhausting in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.

Every drawer you open holds a memory. Every room you clean feels a little more like letting go.

And yet, in the middle of all of it, I’m trying so hard to stay present.

To soak it in.

To notice the way Oliver runs through the house, the way Ruby plays on the floor, the way the light fills our kitchen in the morning. To tuck these moments away so I can carry them with me.

At the same time, I’m trying not to let the emotions spill over too much in front of the kids—to keep things steady and safe for them, even when my heart feels a little undone.

It’s a quiet kind of balancing act.

Gratitude and grief.
Excitement and fear.
Holding on and letting go.

And underneath it all, faith.

Because leaving without a next place lined up feels… scary. There’s no perfect plan, no guaranteed outcome. Just a deep sense that this is the direction we’re supposed to move in—and the trust that everything will fall into place the way it’s meant to.

So here we are.

In the middle.

Packing up a life we’ve loved, while slowly stepping into one we’ve only dreamed about.

And I think, maybe, this is what it looks like to grow.

Not clean and certain.
But tender.
A little messy.
Full of feeling.

And still—so, so worth it.