Transitions are messy. That’s why Hollywood over-relies on the training montage. A fast way to skip through what is otherwise a tedious exercise of two steps forward, one step back with plenty of face plants, internalized screaming and sometimes questioning the will to live. What doesn’t get covered with a montage or awkward exposition (redundant), is emerging from this inglorious period.
It ain’t smooth, let me tell you that.
I should feel something… right?
I type this in latish January, just after closing on land in Southern California. I should be excited. Thrilled. Relieved. Heck, I should be able to drive to the land and pick up a bottle of wine on the way. I can’t because I am, once again, in Texas. Waiting for a polar vortex that’ll freeze the unearned pride right out of this state.
Kidding, nothing could ever dim the glow Texas has of itself.
But joy is not what I feel. I feel complicated. Hollow. Numb. Because getting to this moment was awful. Maybe it’s like ascending a challenging hike. The kind where you’ve cursed and questioned your choices at every misstep, getting on all fours, grit between the fingernails, to reach the slippery summit, worried you’ll fall backwards because you’re a middle-aged white woman, not a mountain goat. And before you can appreciate the view after all that work, you grab your knees and breathe. Your ass got handed to you and you need a minute to catch your breath before fainting.
That’s me, my knees clutched, stitch in my side, muttering something about being out of shape. I don’t know how long I’ll need to rest before I take the next step.
Maybe it’s just time to rest
No part of me thinks I made a mistake. I don’t have regrets. There’s no buyer’s remorse, at least not yet. But there’s also no desire to rush into planning the next phase. I’m not drawing up plans for permitting. I haven’t reached out to contractors to get quotes.
I’m just here. Waiting. For what, that’s harder to put my finger on.
A soul death, maybe. Leaving behind old roles, old identities. Patterns. Hoping that this new land will usher in a new life. The last one didn’t work out.
Texas was my descent into the underworld. Where I had to learn who I was, who I wasn’t, and that which I should purge in order to return stronger.
This move coincides with middle age, pre-perimenopause, and thus, dwindling estrogen and all the fucks that come with it. But it also means it has pressure. To be made anew.
In short: …now what?
One thing I learned in the past few years, compounded and underlined in the months of December 2025 and now January, is that I’m done cleaning up after everyone. I’m done being the rescue ranger. The ball picker-upper for people who’ve dropped balls. The impromptu counselor. Advice giver. Dutiful listener. Absorber of chaos. Helper.
I’ve been a lot to a lot of people. I wish I could say it has been reciprocated. But it hasn’t. I’ve been a coupon and have lost more than just sanity, in some cases I’ve actually lost money.
For me, this move isn’t simply about wanting to live where winter means a light jacket in the morning and summer is “I better get to a beach, but which beach, before everyone else does.” Though of course those reasons rank high on my list.
Me first
This move is about centering myself. Without apology. Prioritizing my wants and needs over the wants and needs of other people. Had I been doing that, I would’ve been in Southern California ten years sooner.
This means I have to ask myself “What do I want, really want?” Not what will I tolerate, or what should I do for a season to get through it. Not who needs my help or where am I needed. But what do I want?
The land I bought is a blank slate, as raw as raw comes. No water well, no pad, no road even. It has nothing but a panoramic view, a great location, and untapped potential. It is waiting to be made into something. It is waiting for me to make it into something.
My plans for my land has changed a few times already. But as I think about what to do with it, I’m just as occupied as what to do with myself.
We can change our lives and remake our identities whenever we want, like raw land with no preconceived ideas and almost no limitations. This isn’t quite a perfect metaphor, as I personally have fewer limits than my land which is, of course, required to ask permissions before big things might be done with it. And yes, I would happily ask mother may I to a county in California than have “freedom” in build-a-trailer-park-wherever in Texas. I’ll cry about permits from a beach. After I decide what beach.
So here I crouch, knees in both hands, a summit climbed, a new life ahead of me. Catching my breath before taking my first steps into my new life.
Outside of this work, I consult through Thornback Creative, helping brands sharpen their language and direction. I take on this work selectively, so my creative practice remains my top priority.