homestead-hearth

Leaving California for the Midwest sounds simple when you first think about it. More space. A slower pace of life. Seasons. A quieter place to build a home and raise a family. And most importantly, it meant building a life alongside the person I love- even if it meant leaving behind the place that had always been home to me.

On paper, the move made perfect sense.

But what no one really tells you is how deeply moving changes you. Not just your surroundings, but your sense of familiarity, identity, and comfort. You don’t just leave behind a state- you leave behind the version of life that once felt effortless.

California wears its beauty openly. It’s dramatic and immediate. The coastline, the mountains, the golden evenings ignited by the “green flash” (YES, it’s real!), the feeling that everywhere you turn there is something breathtaking asking to be noticed. Beauty there feels unavoidable.

The Midwest is quieter about it.

That was hard for me. It still is. I miss the obviousness of California. The landscapes that instantly made you stop and look around. Here, beauty reveals itself more slowly. You find it in the stillness of early mornings, in endless farm fields, in thunderstorms rolling across open skies, in the way fall transforms entire streets overnight. It makes you to slow down enough to notice it. And maybe that’s part of what living here has taught me.

What surprised me most, though, was the loneliness.

There’s a kind of isolation that comes with moving somewhere completely unfamiliar, especially when you’re the one leaving everything behind. My husband already had roots here- family memories around every corner, familiar roads, people who knew him long before I did. I felt like a complete outsider trying to find my place inside a life that already existed.

That kind of loneliness isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s subtle. It’s missing people who used to live five minutes away. It’s driving roads that still don’t feel familiar (I still struggle to remember where Route 31 is and how to get to I-90, don’t judge me). But, it also presents in hearing stories about places and memories you weren’t part of. Sometimes it’s simply realizing how difficult it is to start over as an adult.

And then there’s winter.

People joke about Midwest winters but living through one changes your entire rhythm of life. The cold keeps people inside. The days feel quieter and longer. At first, it only made the isolation feel heavier. Once upon a time, I truly thought 65 degrees was cold. Oh, little did I know what cold really was. But over time, I started to understand the beauty in slower living. Home became more meaningful. Small comforts mattered more. Warm light through windows, homemade meals, warming the house from the constant baking of cookies, quiet evenings. Not to mention, the holidays and getting to experience a true “White Christmas”. These things I once overlooked became part of what grounded me here.

The truth is, moving here didn’t magically solve anything. Moving never does. You still carry yourself with you wherever you go. And if I’m honest, it still doesn’t fully feel like home yet.

I think people expect moves to have a clear ending point and that eventually you wake up one morning and suddenly feel settled. But for some people, it happens slowly. So slowly you barely notice it at all. Right now, I think I’m still somewhere in between. Between missing where I came from and trying to grow roots somewhere new.

The Midwest may never feel the same way California did to me and I don’t think it’s supposed to. They are beautiful in completely different languages. One is bold and immediate. The other is quieter, softer, slower. I have an immense appreciation for both.

I’m sure one day this place will feel fully like home. But as for now, I’m learning that there’s still meaning in the “in between” of building a life before it completely feels like yours.