A Return to Roots

There are seasons in life when the path forward feels expansive and outward—full of movement, exploration, and becoming.

And then there are seasons that call you home.

After nearly a decade in Colorado, Michael and I are beginning a new chapter: returning to my roots in Michigan—this time as husband and wife, with our critters in tow.

This decision didn’t come from urgency. It came from listening.

A quiet, steady knowing that has been unfolding within me for some time.

For the past nine years, the mountains of Colorado have held me in ways I will never be able to fully put into words. The rivers, the wildlife, the mountains—they became a home not just physically, but spiritually.

It was here that I deepened into myself.

Here that I found some of my most meaningful friendships.

Here that I expanded my skills, my work, and my understanding of what it means to live a life rooted in presence, beauty, and liberation.

Colorado gave me space to become.

But there comes a moment when becoming asks something different of you.

Not more expansion—but deeper grounding.

Not outward movement—but inward alignment.

And lately, that alignment has felt like this:

Family.
Roots.
Land.
Home.

Michigan has always been my first home—the land that raised me, shaped me, and still holds the people I love most.

My parents, my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew—all living on the same piece of land that has quietly continued on, even as I built a life elsewhere.

There is something sacred about that kind of continuity.

And as I step closer to one of my deepest callings—to become a mother—I feel an undeniable pull to be near them. To build not just a life, but a shared life.

To create something that is interwoven.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on what it means to follow God’s direction.

Not in a forceful or rigid way—but in a deeply relational one.

Sometimes, it feels like we are given a vision that doesn’t fully match the life we’ve built.

And in those moments, we’re asked to soften.

To release control.

To trust that what is being rearranged is not being taken from us—but given to us differently.

This move feels like that.

A realignment.

There are also very real, practical layers to this decision—ones that asked us to look honestly at the life we were trying to build.

Over time, we began to feel a growing disconnect between our vision and what felt attainable in Colorado.

The dream we carry is simple, but deeply meaningful to us: land to tend, space to create, room to breathe. A home where our work, our creativity, and eventually our family life can all exist in harmony.

But the reality we kept running into was this—access to that kind of life in Colorado has become increasingly out of reach.

Land is outrageous. Homes with even a modest amount of space are often priced far beyond what feels sustainable. What once may have been a grounded, attainable lifestyle has shifted into something that feels exclusive—geared more toward high-end second homes or fast-moving investment markets than toward rooted, long-term living.

And we felt that.

Not just financially, but energetically.

There’s a certain pressure that comes with trying to make something work in an environment that doesn’t quite support your vision. A sense of constantly stretching, negotiating, and compromising the very things you value most—space, slowness, connection to land.

At a certain point, we had to ask ourselves:

Are we trying to force a life here…
or are we being invited somewhere else?

Choosing Michigan didn’t feel like giving something up—it felt like stepping into a place where our vision could actually land.

Where owning a home isn’t a far-off idea, but a present reality.
Where creativity doesn’t have to be squeezed into corners, but can expand outward.
Where the life we’ve been imagining feels supported, not strained.

And then… there is the water. “Michigan” means “Great Waters,” and while Colorado is in its worst drought on record, with immense wildfires projected, the shift feels right.

Last summer, I stood along one of the Great Lakes, feeling the humid breeze move across my skin.

It stirred something ancient in me.

A remembering.

Life begins with water.

And as I step into a season where I long to create life, I find myself craving a landscape that reflects that same lushness, that same vitality.

So here we are.

Choosing Michigan.

Choosing family.

Choosing to plant ourselves fully in one place after years of movement.

Choosing to pour our energy into a home that is truly our own.

There is grief in leaving behind the mountains, the friendships, and the version of life we’ve known.

I won’t pretend there isn’t.

But there is also a deep, grounded excitement—one that feels less like a rush and more like a rooting.

A quiet joy.

This next chapter feels like a return not just to a place—but to a way of living that is slower, more connected, and deeply supported.

A life where we can build something meaningful alongside the people we love most.

A life where home is not something we’re searching for—

but something we are fully inside of.

Michigan, we’re coming home. 🌿