Going Home

Growing up in rural Wyoming came with its challenges. My family did not belong to the dominant religion, which put me in the dubious position of social outcast. I experienced my fair share of pressure, stigma, and bullying. The summers were hot and dry, the winters long and cold. As a young girl, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Don’t get me wrong, there are far worse places to grow up. But children have a way of viewing everything as the worst possible thing, and I was no exception.

I chose to move to the Pacific Northwest. I had family there and was not unfamiliar with the area. It seemed a thriving place, with plenty of sights and activities to capture the attention of a young woman. And I was right. I loved it there. It rained perhaps 60% of the year, making everything lush and green. I very quickly came to love the rain. Everything felt quiet and still when it rained, as if the whole world went into a state of dormancy. I think one of the reasons I loved it so much was the feel of a fantasy epic. When you watch a great fantasy movie or read a great fantasy book, all the best scenes take place in gray, misty scenes. As a lover of fantasy, what could be better than that?

I lived in the Pacific Northwest for sixteen years. I developed great friendships and bought a condo. I had a great job, made good money, and enjoyed a variety of hobbies. Every summer, I made the long drive back to my family home in Wyoming to visit my parents. In the beginning years, I could hardly wait to drive back to my home. I am very close to my parents, but I could barely stand being in my hometown.

But as the years progressed, my cold feelings toward Wyoming began to thaw. As my job and responsibilities grew more stressful, I came to cherish those two weeks in summer when I could spend two weeks in the quiet country, doing as little as possible. It was getting harder and harder to leave my parents behind, to drive back to the city and rapid pace of life.

In 2020, that’s when I started to feel like my job was taking over my life. Everything changed, and my workload doubled. Even tripled. Despite not having physically demanding work, every night I would go home utterly exhausted. I lacked the energy to do any projects, and all my creativity drained away. Writing, something I had loved since high school, became an impossible chore. I lost the desire to put pen to paper, and I felt like I was broken.

My parents own nine acres of land. For a few years, they had said they would build a house for me on the side two acres if I would only move back home. I had always scoffed at the notion, thinking nothing on this green Earth could ever convince me to move back to Wyoming! Then the years of 2020 and 2021 rolled around, and the Universe itself said, “Shows what you know, sucker!”

In December of 2021, I called my parents. They asked me that question again. This time, I said yes—much to their surprise. To my own, as well. The life I was living no longer made me happy, and I had already been considering moving closer to my parents. The thought occurred to me, if I’m going to move, I may as well move home.

I contacted a Real Estate Agent, and within a few days my condo was posted for sale. It sold four days later for $10,000 over listing price. I made a significant profit, quite my job, packed up all my stuff, said goodbye to my friends, and moved. My father and brother drove up with a U-Haul trailer to help me, and we drove through snow and somewhat nasty weather. I told my parents the only way I could feel good about living with them while the house was built was to pay them rent.

For a week or so, I did little more than sleep and laze around. Then, suddenly, it felt like I woke up from a coma. My energy returned, and with it, my creativity. The burning need to write flared back to life, and I finished writing my first book. Turns out, that part of me was not dead; it was merely sleeping. I spent time researching how to self publish, hired an editor and cover designer, and built my own website. That was a fun challenge, let me tell you!

If I had stayed in Washington, I know I never would have accomplished any of that. Sure, I would still be making good money, have a stable income, and a certain financial future. But you know what? I would be unhappy, unwell, exhausted, and just not me. The thing so intrinsic to my very soul, writing, would be a distant and unattainable dream. If I had not dismantled my life, I think I would be lost.

Who knew the very place I thought was smothering me would be the thing to bring me back to life? I have never regretted my decision, and now I know I never will.