Coming Home to Dixie

If moving across the country with two kids, three dogs, four cats, and a bird wasn’t already enough chaos, today added a few chapters to the what-else-could-go-wrong saga.

Since I sold my car earlier this week (goodbye, independence… for now), Jim had to coordinate with me and the girls to get us all to the hair salon this morning. This was my last hair appointment before the move—bittersweet doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’ve been going to the same stylist for over ten years. She’s seen me through marriage, adoption, career shifts, and countless emotional transformations that have nothing to do with hair. Sitting in her chair has always felt like a little pocket of calm in my week, so leaving her behind as we head to Mississippi is its own kind of goodbye.

The girls were excited—especially my oldest, who had saved up her own money to get the latest trendy haircut: the “wolf cut.” She’d been talking about it for weeks. My youngest was more reserved but still looking forward to a simple trim of her long hair. Everyone was in good spirits. And then… the phone rang.

It was the painter I’d hired to paint several rooms in our new Mississippi home before we arrive. She had just arrived at the property and couldn’t get in. I was confused—she had the lockbox code and everything. And then came the words I absolutely did not expect to hear: “There’s a man living in the house.”

A man had broken into our new home and was squatting there—with his dog. I felt sick. Law enforcement had to be called. The sheriff ended up arresting the man, who, we later learned, was wanted in connection with a shooting. Just let that sink in: a man wanted for a violent crime was camping out in our future living room while we were blissfully unaware, over 2,200 miles away.

Thankfully, no one was hurt. The house is okay. But it shook me. There’s something deeply unsettling about knowing someone invaded a space you’ve already started calling “home.” I’m still processing it.

Trying to move forward with our day, we continued driving to the salon—only to have our truck break down about five minutes before we got there. Thankfully, my hairstylist is truly one of a kind. She drove out to pick us up, no questions asked. Just more proof that relationships—even those formed over scissors and shampoo—can be deep and lasting.

We got to the salon and tried to reset emotionally. The girls were beaming after their cuts. My oldest looked so proud of her edgy new style, and my youngest kept touching her newly trimmed hair. It was one of those moments where, even amid exhaustion and stress, I could feel the joy and connection that’s kept us grounded through all this change.

But the universe apparently wasn’t finished testing our patience.

Jim came to pick us up in his other truck—only for that one to break down too. He managed to tinker with it just enough to get us moving again, but it stalled the whole way home. In 100-degree heat. With no air conditioning. What should have been a 30-minute drive stretched into over an hour of sweat, jolts, and lots of praying. By the time we finally made it home, we were overheated and completely worn out.

But you know what? We made it. And somehow, at the end of this ridiculous, stressful, slightly terrifying day we can count our blessings.  We keep saying how God watched over us – if our painter hadn’t shown up at our Mississippi home to begin painting today who knows what we would have walked into or the condition our house would have been in – and if the trucks hadn’t broken down today but decided to wait until we were on the road driving across the country we would have been completely stranded in an unknown area with our animals and truck full of our belongings.

These little moments—resilience in the face of the absurd—are the heart of what this whole blog is about. This isn’t just a moving diary. It’s about healing. About showing up for each other when things go sideways. About parenting through madness, holding on to hope, and celebrating the victories—like two beautiful girls thrilled with their haircuts—no matter how small.

And if our trucks had to break down, better now than halfway to Mississippi, right?

Here’s to hoping tomorrow is just a little less exciting.