The last two weeks in the U.S. were a blur of love, laughter, and quiet heartbreak.
I had already packed my house. Sold or stored everything that once felt permanent and essential. My departure from my job was sealed. What was left of my team sent me off in style— with grace, with gratitude, with reverence.
But the real goodbye happened in living rooms, kitchens, and late-night porch talks.
I spent long evenings with my mother— talking, laughing, sipping cocktails, reminiscing on decades of memories that only she and I could hold. We didn’t rush. We didn’t rehearse. We just let the rhythm carry us.
I spent tender days with my baby sister Cheryl and her family, trying to imagine her not being a short drive away. Her hugs felt tighter. Her eyes lingered longer. We didn’t say everything— but we said enough. She mothered me as I fumbled, on fumes, trying to remember how to organize and pack.
I shared dinner dates with my besties— where we laughed, cried, and made promises of intermittent visits that felt both hopeful and fragile.
I spent moments with my Father, not looking at a tv, as it played, pretending we weren’t both confused about how our relationship would stretch across oceans. We didn’t have the words. But we had presence. And sometimes, that’s enough.
I remember my neighborhood “nephew” Caden— who used to cut my grass— asking where I was going when he saw the moving truck. I couldn’t even tell him. The words wouldn’t come. I had grown so accustomed to his weekly visits, his baseball updates, his quiet loyalty.
There were so many more people I wanted to see. To hug. To fellowship with. But there wasn’t time. And there wasn’t energy.
It took everything I had to say goodbye to my family— not knowing when I’d return, not knowing how the rhythm would hold across distance.
And then came the weight of other people’s fears.
“What if you get into danger?” “What if the society doesn’t accept you?” “You don’t know anyone!” “You left your state job?!” “I heard they have bad Spirits over there.”
Their questions weren’t just curiosities. They were projections. And they were heavy.
I carried their fears. I carried my own. And still—I boarded the plane.
Not because I was fearless. But because I was ready.
This post is for anyone who’s ever had to say goodbye without knowing what the hello would look like. For anyone who’s ever left love behind to follow a deeper call. For anyone who’s ever chosen to leap, even while trembling.
I took one step closer to my version of Freedom. What does Freedom look like for you?