Coming Home to Dixie

We just returned from California with our final load of belongings.

It feels strange to even write that sentence because this move has consumed so much of our lives for the last year that it began to feel permanent—like we would always be in transition, always halfway between two places, always surrounded by boxes and checklists and uncertainty.

But now, somehow, we’re here.

Done.

At least with the moving part.

We all flew out together for this last trip, though once we arrived, I had to immediately split off and catch a connecting flight to Los Angeles for a work conference. Meanwhile, Jim and the girls stayed with Jim’s parents. It felt strange bouncing between professional conference rooms and then back into family life again, but I was thankful for both experiences.

After the conference ended, I flew back to join everyone and spent a few precious days with family. We had missed them more than I realized. There’s something comforting about being around people who have known you for years—people who remember older versions of you and love you anyway.

But before we even flew out to California, something unexpected happened.

I decided—almost impulsively—to reach out to the woman we had gotten Finn from to see if she happened to have any Ragdoll kittens available. Losing Finn devastated us, and while I knew another kitten could never replace him, there was still a softness in my heart toward the breed itself. Their personalities are so gentle and affectionate.

She didn’t have any kittens available herself.

But she knew someone who did.

And somehow, the timing lined up perfectly.

A little male Ragdoll kitten was ready for his forever home the exact week we were in California.

It felt meant to be.

Before I knew it, I was arranging airline paperwork and flying back with a tiny ball of fluff tucked safely under the seat in front of me. We named him Winston.

Roslynn flew home with me while Siena made the long drive back with Jim in the U-Haul. Thankfully, their journey was uneventful—something we deeply appreciated after all the breakdowns and adventures from our original cross-country trip last summer.

Today, we finally dropped off the U-Haul.

As I drove behind it one last time, I felt something settle deep inside me. A quiet realization that this chapter—the actual moving across the country part—is finally complete.

No more loading trucks.
No more boxes and packing supplies.
No more “one final trip.”

Now comes the slower, steadier work of truly settling in.

Today we wandered through a building supply store pricing materials for a very budget-friendly kitchen update. We jokingly call it our “slap lipstick on the pig and call it good” remodel—or “SLOP” for short. Though now that we actually own a pig, the mental image of Amelia wearing lipstick is admittedly pretty adorable.

Little by little, the house is beginning to feel more like ours.

One especially meaningful moment came recently when we finally replaced the kitchen door. The old one had been broken into last summer by the squatter who had been secretly living in our house before we moved in. It had been patched together with plexiglass and temporary fixes ever since.

Installing the new door felt symbolic somehow. Another piece of closure. Another reminder that what was broken can be repaired.

Thankfully, we’ve had no issues since moving here. Between our dogs and our watchful neighbors, we feel protected and cared for.

The girls also officially finished their first year of school here in Mississippi. Ironically, we were back in California when school actually ended, so the end of the year felt a little anticlimactic. But looking back now, I feel so proud of how well they’ve adjusted.

This move was enormous. New home. New culture. New school. New friends. New church. New rhythms of life.

And yet—they’ve done beautifully.

They’ve grown in confidence, maturity, and resilience in ways that amaze me.

And speaking of new additions, our newest puppy, Charlie, is settling in wonderfully too. In the evenings, she curls up beside us on the couch while the rest of the animals find their places nearby, and I sometimes sit there looking around thinking:

This is the life we dreamed about.

Messy. Loud. Full of animals. Full of healing. Full of second chances.

As I reflect back on our cross-country journey and everything it took to get here—the fear, the sacrifices, the breakdowns, the tears, the laughter, the uncertainty—I feel something deeper than relief.

I feel grateful.

Grateful that we took the leap.
Grateful that God carried us through.
Grateful for where the journey brought us.

And for the first time in a long time…

I finally feel home.