A year ago, we were in the midst of making a big move to a new home. It was not the first move I'd ever made: in fact, come to think of it, it was May of 1999 when I left home to my first big job in the UK. That was a big move, too.
But this move was different.
Moving to Vancouver Island was the most daring move I'd ever made. Each move before that was preceded by a calculated strategy: a job hunt, a careful exploration of the new town, hours of research of amenities, local organizations, leisure centres, grocery stores... When we landed in a new place, I knew it well, and I knew what I'd be doing there.
This time, I didn't.
I made this move out of a need for a change so large that I dare to call it a rebirth: I needed to find me again. I had no plans. We just looked at our finances and knew we'd be ok, then we secured a place to live, packed up our things, and we went.
People found it hard to understand. Did I not have a job lined up? Did I not want to be closer to my family? Did I know anyone there.
No, no, and no.
Oddly, since I have been here, I do feel closer to my family, because I'm happier. And when I'm happier, I want to talk and share what is happening with me with them. Being further away seems to have made me closer to them.
I've been incredibly lucky. I found a job with people I like and with work that I enjoy. I've also realized that part of this move was for me to understand that the harder you work, the luckier you get. I worked hard to get here: was frugal with my money so that I could afford to take this chance. And it paid off.
Today, I'm proud that I had the courage to take a leap of faith. I'm very happy: happy enough for it to scare me, really. How much good stuff could someone have?
I won't dwell on it. I'm just grateful. And proud.