Coming Home to Dixie

We’re now down to the “last” days.

Last weekend in this house.
Last Monday in this state.
Last grocery run, last leisurely weekend brunch with my girls, last everything.

As I drove to my appointments this past weekend, a wave of nostalgia caught me off guard and washed over me with such force that I felt the tears well up inside me. I’ve been so focused on the logistics—the packing, the pets, the vehicles, the schedules—that I hadn’t fully allowed myself to feel the goodbye. But it came. And it came hard.

I’m so excited to be returning home to Dixie. I really am. But that doesn’t mean this goodbye is easy.

I’ll miss so many things about our life here in California. Most of all, I’ll miss family and friends—those who have walked beside us, loved our girls, celebrated our milestones, and shown up in both beautiful and broken moments. I’ll miss being able to run a quick errand and be back in twenty minutes. I’ll miss the grocery and food delivery. I’ll miss our local nail salon, my hairstylist, our favorite pizza place, getting bagels on a Sunday morning, sitting in my garden surrounded by all my favorite flowers, and the beautiful views we never stopped marveling at, even after all these years.

At our new home in Mississippi, everything is at least 30 minutes away. Some things even farther. We’re trading convenience for quiet. But with that trade-off comes something we’ve longed for: wide, open spaces. The soft rhythm of a country life. Neighbors who know your name and look out for you not because they have to, but because it’s who they are.

We’ve already had a taste of that Southern hospitality. Since the squatter incident at our new house, no fewer than three different families have taken it upon themselves to regularly check on the property. One family even went inside to make sure it was clean before we arrive. Over the weekend, cameras were installed—just in case the man who had been squatting tries to come back (he already did once). It’s unnerving knowing our new home has been occupied by someone else before we ever got there, and it’s hard to not feel a little vulnerable being so far away and dependent on strangers.

But those “strangers” are already becoming something more. And I believe, over time, we’ll build a new network of friends—people we can count on, break bread with, laugh beside. I already have a mental list of neighbors to thank, and you know me—what better way to say thank you than with a little gathering? Once the dust settles and the boxes are unpacked, I think a welcome party is in order.

Still, as I live the last days here in this state —the one we built a life in—I can’t help but ache a little. I’ve hosted family holidays here, watched my girls grow here, celebrated birthdays and milestones here. I’ve cried, healed, fought for joy. And now, it’s time to let it go.

A few nights ago, we were watching one of our favorite shows, Ghosts (the UK version), and there was a line in a poem recited by “Lady Button” in Series 5, Episode 2 that stopped me in my tracks:

“Everything changes, so home is not the walls or the gardens.
Home is the souls within those walls.
Home is the memories made on this spot.
The laughter, the tears, the lives lived.
That is what makes a home.
The rolling grass, the trees that sway,
The air that carries our stories…
All of it is part of us.”

That line has stayed with me. Because that’s exactly how I feel.

This house was our home, not because of its structure or square footage, but because of the life we lived here. And that life—those souls, those stories—are coming with us. We will make new memories in new walls. We will build new laughter, new tears, new traditions under Mississippi skies.

And that house, the one waiting for us across the country, will someday hold our stories too.

Right now, there’s still so much to do. Appointments are (mostly) behind us—thankfully. The girls saw their doctors and dentist one last time, and Honey got groomed for her debut in Dixie. Ava had her vet follow-up today (her skin is finally healing, thank goodness), and our kitten Finn is set to be neutered tomorrow just in time for the move. After that, we’re free and clear.

And I’ll keep writing.

People ask me how I have time to write these blog posts with everything going on—and the truth is, I don’t have time. I make time. Because it’s how I breathe through the chaos. It calms me. It grounds me. And it gives me strength to know you’re reading this, walking beside us in spirit. You are helping me, even from afar. Like Peter Pan’s audience whispering “I believe” to bring Tinker Bell back to life—your belief in us matters.

So here we go.
One week left.
One foot in California, one heart already in Mississippi.

We’re living the “lasts” now—but also standing on the edge of new “firsts.”
And through it all, I hold on to my favorite word: hope.

Hope for a future not yet written.
Hope for healing, connection, and rest.
Hope for a home not made of walls, but of souls.

We’re almost there.
We’re coming home to Dixie.

I thought it fitting to share two of my favorite pictures of our family (my in-laws, bonus daughters, their mom – the people we’ve shared so many of life’s moments with over the years). And one of my favorite videos of the girls and me dancing the “Wednesday” dance – I was so proud of them that they learned the choreography with me over a few weekends and did an amazing job (I felt like a “cool” mom doing that with them. . . lol).