Thirty days.
That’s all I have left to close the chapter on a life I’ve spent decades building, and open the door to a future that’s still a beautiful mystery.

In thirty days, once escrow closes, I’ll pack up what’s left of my life into my car, my dog in the passenger seat, and drive across the country toward a state I’ve barely stepped foot in.
I chose it for the beaches, the no state income tax, and because the company headquarters are there; a practical start, sure, but I’m hoping it has a lot more to offer me and my dog than just sand and savings.

This is the part they don’t show in the movies, the mess of cardboard boxes, the sting of planning goodbyes, the silent moments standing in the middle of a room full of memories, realizing this was a whole life.
One I built with intention and heart, even if it’s one I now have to leave behind.

The hardest part of all of this is saying goodbye to my kids.
Even as grown as they are, the ache of letting go doesn’t soften with time.
I’ll miss their visits to the house, the dogs running wild in the backyard, the smell of something on the grill, the laughter around the card table, and the simple comfort of knowing this was always our place to land, to meet, to catch up.
It’s not just the big milestones I’ll miss; it’s the everyday moments that stitched our lives together without us even realizing it.

And then there are the friends, the ones who carried me through this chapter with unwavering loyalty and love.
The ones who sat with me in the quiet wreckage after the hardest nights.
The ones who made me laugh when life felt unbearable.
The ones who celebrated every tiny win and reminded me who I was when I almost forgot.

Leaving them feels impossible at times.
Like trying to unweave threads that have become part of my own fabric.
Even though I know we’ll stay connected, texts, calls, maybe even plane tickets, it won’t be the same.
Not the casual pop-ins, the shared meals, the quiet companionship of simply being nearby.
It’s a different kind of goodbye.
A grief for the everydayness of the people who made survival possible, and then, somehow, made life beautiful again.

Today, I heard a phrase that hit my heart just right:
“Even the most beautiful chapters have to end for the story to go on.”

And maybe that’s the truest thing about this moment in my life.
This chapter has been breathtaking in its own way, messy and miraculous, and its beauty doesn’t vanish just because I turn the page.
It comes with me, carried in the faces, voices, and memories of the people who loved me through it.

But still, I’m flirting with what’s next.
A new coast.
A new rhythm.
A new chance.

My plan is simple, if not a little bold:
Once I arrive, I’ll settle into an Airbnb right on the beach for the first month or so.
A temporary pause before I plant new roots.
A place to breathe, explore, and maybe wonder why all beach rentals come furnished with a suspicious number of wicker chairs and inspirational “Live, Laugh, Love” signs.

It gives me space to feel my way into this next chapter, without the pressure of picking a new home from behind a computer screen.
There are so many options, so many considerations—location, community, lifestyle, even what “home” means to me now, that it makes more sense to decide once I’m living it, seeing it, touching it.

And sorting through what to pack hasn’t exactly been straightforward either.
Every item feels like a loaded question:
Keep? Sell? Donate?
Or light a ceremonial bonfire in the backyard and dance around it for closure?
Too soon?

The truth is, I don’t even know what kind of place I’ll end up in, cozy beach bungalow? Tiny high-rise apartment? RV parked under a palm tree?
So packing now feels a little like choosing shoes for a trip when you don’t know if you’re hiking a mountain or attending a wedding.

Right now, while I’m still here, trying to wrap up a life full of history and memories, I’m allowing myself the gift of time.
Time to cry.
Time to laugh.
Time to get wildly overwhelmed by the moving checklist, only to remember that duct tape and deep breaths solve almost anything.

I keep reminding myself: this is a choice.
I am choosing to go.
Not because I’m running, but because I’m reaching.
Reaching for a version of myself I haven’t fully met yet.

One who doesn’t wake up to the familiar skyline.
One who doesn’t drive the same streets with muscle memory.
One who isn’t constantly folding her life around everyone else’s plans.

It’s not that I don’t love the life I’ve lived here, I do.
I’ve raised two incredible kids who are now carving out lives of their own.
I’ve built a career I’m proud of.
I’ve loved, lost, and grown in ways I never could’ve predicted.
I’ve been held up by the hands of people I will never stop being grateful for.

But something in me knows it’s time to go.
Not just for a change of scenery, but for a change of soul-space.

The next thirty days will be a swirl of logistics and emotion, closing a chapter here, planning my cross-country journey, imagining the beaches and little towns that might one day feel like mine.

I don’t know if I’ll find a porch that feels like peace.
I don’t know if the locals will become friends, or if I’ll feel like a stranger for a while.
I don’t know if I’ll find my rhythm quickly, or if I’ll have to dance awkwardly alone for a bit (with my dog pretending she doesn’t know me).

But I’m open. I’m curious. And I’m willing.

So here’s to the next thirty days, may they be full of brave decisions, unexpected clarity, long drives with the windows down, a suspicious number of gas station snacks, and maybe a few magic moments that whisper, this could be it.

As I sort through what to keep, what to let go of, and what to carry forward, not just in boxes but in spirit, I’m realizing this move is less about geography and more about trust.
Trusting that I’m allowed to want more.
That it’s okay to start over at 55.
That maybe home isn’t a place I find, but something I create.

And even though saying goodbye feels heavy, and packing up a lifetime feels impossible at times, I know this:
The beauty of this chapter doesn’t end here.
It comes with me, in the memories, the love, the laughter, and the friendships that distance can never undo.

Because even the most beautiful chapters have to end for the story to go on.
And mine?
It’s just getting to the good part.