Coming Home to Dixie

We’re now just two and a half weeks away from our big move, and while the countdown is exciting, it’s also brought with it a tidal wave of new decisions, frustrations, and growing pains. Life has a way of making sure we don’t coast through major transitions. It demands that we show up, adapt, and keep breathing—sometimes literally.

Our biggest obstacle at the moment? The trucks.

Jim and I have been wrestling with a difficult decision: whether we can trust either of our two aging trucks to carry us—our children, our animals, our belongings—across the country. The original plan was for all of us to ride together in one vehicle, towing our utility trailer. But after multiple breakdowns over the past few days, including yet another round of stalling in what was supposed to be our moving-day vehicle, that plan is unraveling fast.

The idea of being stranded in the middle of Wyoming with two kids, three dogs, four cats, and a bird is enough to keep me awake at night.

We had hoped to buy a new car once we got to Mississippi and settled in, but now it looks like we may have to do it sooner—just to have a reliable backup vehicle for the trip. That also means we’ll probably have to split up on the road. Jim will drive one truck with the trailer, and I’ll take the other vehicle with the girls and the animals—or some combination of us, depending on what makes the most sense (and keeps the peace).

It’s not how we pictured this journey. We had imagined the long drive as a shared adventure, the four of us piled in together with Jim and I able to take turns driving; but now, we’re looking at separate vehicles and each of us driving the long way. It’s a small grief in the midst of a much bigger picture, but it stings.

To top it off, my asthma has flared up. The combination of dust from constant packing and the unrelenting stress of managing all these moving parts has lit a fire in my lungs. Where we live now is notoriously dry and dusty, which doesn’t help. I find myself wheezing through boxes and coughing through my lists, clinging to the vision of fresh Mississippi air like it’s a lifeline. I can practically smell the humidity and the green, and I crave it. I crave relief.

And then there’s Ava, our sweet German Shepherd, who’s still struggling with her skin. We took her to the vet yesterday, and while we don’t have full answers yet, the concern is growing. The vet ran bloodwork and took skin scrapings to examine more closely. For now, we’ve started her on pain medication and antibiotics to try and bring her some relief, but seeing her suffer is hard. She’s part of our family, and it’s just one more weight on a pile that’s already tipping.

This morning, the girls are busy packing, and that in itself has been a lesson—for them, and for me. They both prefer to do things their own way. Working as a team doesn’t come naturally, and communication is a constant area of growth. Honestly, it would be so much faster if I just stepped in and did it myself. But that would be missing the point. So I take a step back, let them struggle through it, argue a bit, then (hopefully) find a way forward together. Because that’s how growth works—messy and uncomfortable.

I’ve realized in these moments that this move, this season of upheaval, is more than just a logistical transition. It’s a stretching of all of us—emotionally, mentally, even spiritually. It’s exposing our weak points while also revealing the quiet strength beneath them. The kind you don’t know you have until you’re forced to use it.

So here we are, two and a half weeks out. Our plans keep shifting, the dust keeps swirling, and our nerves keep fraying. But we’re still moving forward—slowly, clumsily, stubbornly. We’re holding onto the dream of home, not just in geography, but in spirit. And every small challenge we conquer together—every argument diffused, every truck jury-rigged, every medication given with love—is a step closer to that new life we’ve imagined.

It’s not easy. But it’s ours.
And that makes it worth it.