Coming Home to Dixie

Yesterday, it really hit me—we’re less than two weeks away. Less than two weeks from pulling out of our driveway for the last time and heading toward a brand-new life across the country. We’re actually doing this.

I’ve been so busy these past few months—coordinating logistics, juggling work, managing the girls and animals, navigating doctor’s, dentist’s and vet visits—that I haven’t had a chance to feel it. But when the crew leader from the moving company showed up at the end of the day yesterday to assess everything and go over the loading plan, I felt it in my gut. When he casually said, “We’ll be here next Friday at 8 a.m.,” my stomach flipped.

Next Friday.

There’s a pit in my stomach now—part nerves, part butterflies. The reality of this 3.5-day road trip with kids and animals is suddenly very, very real. Jim and I sat down last night and mapped out the plan as best we could. We’ve decided that he’ll most likely take the two big dogs with him, and I’ll take the small dog—Honey, our sweet mini poodle mix—plus the four cats, the bird, and the girls.

We also talked about letting each of the girls take turns riding with each of us during the drive. We thought it would be a nice way to create some bonding moments—special one-on-one time in the car, which is something we rarely get with everything else going on. It’s not the scenic vacation most families picture, but it’s our adventure, and we’re trying to make it meaningful in the small ways.

Meanwhile, the driveway is steadily filling up with boxes. Jim has been amazing—packing daily, organizing the chaos into manageable piles. Siena has been a big help too, which I’m so grateful for. She’s taking her role as the big sister seriously and has been working alongside me with surprising focus. There’s still a lot of bickering between the girls (some days it feels like refereeing a championship match), but in these final days, I’m seeing glimmers of teamwork and grace sneak in.

I’ve been trying to squeeze in road trip prep in my rare moments of downtime—buying supplies for the car, stocking up on snacks, entertainment for the kids, and everything else we might need to keep the wheels turning and the meltdowns minimal. I’ve made packing lists and looked at stops along the route, organized pet crates, and made vet appointment records easily accessible, just in case. Every detail is one more mental tab open in my brain. And there are so many tabs.

My job is still demanding, and while I’m doing my best to work around it, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t stretched pretty thin right now. Some days I feel like I’m just barely keeping it together—balancing conference calls with packing boxes, writing emails while refereeing arguments about the packing. Deep breaths have become my personal mantra. I can do this. I am doing this.

And yet, underneath all the chaos, there’s something else: pride.

Pride that we’ve made it this far. That we’ve committed to this leap, even when it’s scary. That we’re moving toward something that feels more aligned with who we are and how we want to live. Pride in our family for growing stronger—even when it’s messy and loud and emotional. Pride in myself for holding it all together, even when I feel like I’m falling apart.

So as I walk past the ever-growing wall of boxes, as I tape up another box and cross another item off my list, I’m reminding myself: we are almost there. And when we pull into our driveway in Mississippi—our new driveway—there will be more dust, more boxes, more to-do lists. But there will also be space. Space to breathe. Space to grow. Space to finally feel the peace we’ve been moving toward for so long.

Next Friday. 8 a.m.
We’re doing this.