March 1 was the anniversary of Chad and I moving to Milwaukee: what I like to call our unapologetic, unhinged adventure to uproot our comfortable lives for something new in an unfamiliar place.
When I describe it to new people, I stick to a script I’ve practically memorized: we decided, within the span of a month, to sell our house and most of our things, saying goodbye to Colorado and hello to a city we didn’t know, for the sake of adventure. (Sure, there was a job involved, but it maybe takes the romance down a notch.)
A year later, and Milwaukee is now our home. I’m not sure when it happened, exactly—when we stopped saying, “can you believe we’re here?” And instead fell into a sturdy security and truth that here is where we’re meant to be.
Maybe it happened when we signed the closing papers on our Victorian house, or when our new mattress was stolen off our front porch, or when we put fresh flowers on the bedside table for our first guests to enjoy.
Maybe it was the first time we were invited to a party, or the day Wally had his first report card from daycare, or when we were propositioned to join a shuffleboard league.
Maybe it happened on the waves of Lake Michigan, when the lake looked as big as the ocean and our hearts felt an unadulterated peace. Sometimes it seems like I fell into motion with the water, and haven’t needed air since.
Truthfully, I’m less concerned with how and more impressed with with the here, the lively and delicious and exciting now. We’ve built this—this city is ours.
What a year, what a city, what a home.