Coming Home to Dixie

We’re here.

Those words feel surreal as I type them. After months of planning, praying, packing, and pushing ourselves to the limit—we’ve made it to our new home in Mississippi. The movers unloaded the last box on Friday, and after they pulled out of the driveway, we looked at each other, exhausted but giddy.

We decided to run into town, about 30 minutes away, to pick up a few essentials and grab something to eat. When we spotted an Applebee’s, we all let out a little cheer. It felt like the first exhale of the day. We slid into a booth, hungry and tired, and shared a simple meal that felt like a five-star feast after the week we’d had. It gave us just enough energy to tackle the next task: our first family grocery run.

That may not sound like a big deal, but as we stepped through the doors of the massive Kroger’s next to the restaurant, we were all wide-eyed. First of all, it was huge. Second, the prices were unbelievable. After years of paying California prices, this felt like discovering treasure. We wandered the aisles like kids in a candy store—only this time, the candy was reasonably priced produce, fresh baked bread, and snacks we didn’t have to ration. It was strange and sweet all at once.

And honestly, I don’t think we’ve ever done a full grocery run as a whole family before. This was new for us. We laughed and shared ideas as we filled our cart—part necessity, part new-beginning wish list. The reality of our cross-country move hit again when we realized we had lost all the food from our fridge and freezer during the long journey. We had packed everything carefully into coolers and insulated bags, but the trip took so much longer than expected. Everything spoiled.

Among those losses was something that hurt more than expected—my sourdough starter, my “mother.” I had nurtured it for the last year and baked so many loaves with it, sharing the love with friends and family. It had become a symbol of home, of care, of resilience. Now, it was gone. I try not to dwell, hoping I can get a starter from a friend or family member soon and begin again.

Because of that loss (and because the store is now a 30-minute drive), we ended up making a second trip back to Kroger’s a couple days later. Our cart overflowed so much we almost needed a second one. We were stocking up to avoid frequent trips, learning quickly how to adjust to rural life.

The unpacking began in earnest, with all of us doing our part. One of the first spaces I needed to set up was my office. I started some initial prep before arriving by having some wainscoting added to the walls and a vintage chandelier ordered for the space. I’m really looking forward to seeing the walls painted and it all come together to create my special space. I was a little anxious about starting back at work so soon after the move, but also grateful for the chance to dig into something familiar. The previous owner had left behind a sturdy old desk, and it turned out to be perfect. It needs some refinishing, but it fits the space and has a bit of character. It feels like it belongs—like I do.

One odd thing I’m adjusting to is working California hours from Mississippi. My firm is two hours behind, so when my computer says “10 a.m.,” my stomach is telling me it’s lunchtime. When I’m ready to wind down at 5 p.m. my time, it’s only 3 p.m. for my colleagues. It’s like a lingering jet lag—disorienting and tiring—but I know I’ll eventually fall into rhythm.

In addition to unpacking and settling into work, I had to gather all the documents to register Roslynn for school (Siena was already registered). Fortunately, I had nearly everything organized and ready. What I didn’t expect was that when I called to ask about enrollment, they told me there was an Open House that very night. What perfect timing!

Roslynn was over the moon. She could hardly contain her excitement as we drove to her new school. It’s small, charming, and feels like something out of a storybook. Her entire 5th grade class has just 11 students. The teachers were warm and welcoming, and it was clear how much they truly care for their students. There’s something special about this place—an intentionality, a sweetness I’ve longed for.

As we were leaving, I heard someone call my name. I turned to see a face from my past—a classmate from high school, now grown and serving on the school board. We chatted, and I couldn’t help but smile at the serendipity of it all. These are the kinds of moments that called me back home—the familiarity, the connections, the sense of being known.

Even Jim, who’s naturally more reserved, has been joining in. He chats with people, asks questions, and smiles at strangers. There’s something about the South that invites you to slow down, sit a while, and visit. It’s not just a pace—it’s a posture. One of kindness, of community, of being neighborly.

I feel it already: we’re going to be okay here. Not just okay—we’re going to thrive. This new life, this new rhythm, this new community—it’s already working its way into our hearts.

We are home.