What A Difference a Year Makes

This time last year, everything felt like it was shifting beneath our feet.

Nathan had just lost his job. I remember the quiet heaviness that filled our house. The way everything suddenly felt unsure. He spent that summer doing what so many don’t see—searching, applying, rewriting, praying, and trying to hold steady for all of us. He carried so much on his shoulders. And I tried to carry him. But truthfully? We were both exhausted.

When we realized that the right job might mean leaving Pittsburgh, our hearts sank.

This place became home.
It’s where Zoe has grown up since she was two. Where Grayson and Logan have made their childhood memories. It’s where we’ve spent holidays, birthdays, ordinary days. Where our people are. Where routines and rhythms and favorite parks and school drop-offs live.

Leaving felt like loss.

We didn’t want to say it out loud, but we both knew: this next chapter probably meant starting over somewhere else. And that hurt. There were so many nights I’d lie in bed wondering, Are we making the right decision? Will the kids be okay? Will we?

I cried more than I admitted.
I tried to stay strong for the kids. I tried to make it feel exciting. But inside, I was grieving. And I think that’s something we don’t talk about enough—how even good change, necessary change, can still feel like grief.

But here’s what I’ve learned in the past year:
Even when it all feels like it’s falling apart, life finds a way to build something new.

Nathan got a job.
Not where we thought, not in the ways we expected. But it was an answer. And with it came this slow and quiet kind of healing. We found strength in the stretch. We started trusting again. And while it’s still hard to think about leaving what’s familiar, there’s also this deep knowing now—that home isn’t just one place. It’s us. It’s the love we carry with us, no matter the zip code.

We’re still in it. The transition. The messy middle. But I can say this:
We’re different now. Stronger. More tender.
More honest with ourselves. More rooted in what really matters.

So if you’re walking through uncertainty right now, I just want you to know:
It’s okay to grieve it.
It’s okay to not have all the answers.
And it’s okay to trust that something beautiful can still be waiting on the other side of it.

Because what a difference a year makes