Oh, hello there.

I pumped my gas for the first time in nearly five years a couple weeks ago. I looked clumsy and stupid, too. No one was at the 7-11, so I sat in my car for a few seconds before I remembered I'm not in Oregon anymore and I had to fill up the tank myself. I got out, fumbled with the cap, and thought that I really wouldn't mind paying an extra 20 cents a gallon for someone else to do this.

We've moved and settled now, in a new town, a new state, a new climate. I actually really love our new house, the one we're renting, that’s just a few blocks from a good friend from high school. But I also really miss our old house, the one we owned, the one that Matt remodeled the bathroom, the one with the roses I cared for, the one where friends would drop by to drink wine, play games, and laugh.

There is so much about this city that is unfamiliar to me. I look at every corner with a bit of skepticism, a bit of curiosity, a bit of wonder. What will I come to love in this new place? When will I start to feel comfortable? When does this new life start to feel like real life? It's this idea of home that I can't stop thinking about.

When you move, when you uproot your life with a lot of hope and not much else, everything feels uneasy at first. Home is no longer the place on 132nd. New Seasons is no longer our local grocery store. The book on Portland happy hours that we kept in our car is now useless to us. But because of all these silly things, I’m reminded what home actually is.

I appreciate the friends who say why don't you just move back, and the families that say we're so glad you're near. But what I'm most grateful for are those moments in bed, when the lights are off and Matt's softly snoring, and the setting is so vague that I could be anywhere. In that moment, lying next to my husband, I feel such comfort because I know that I'm home; that we are each other's home, wherever we might be.