I always wonder, when I begin the process of moving to a new home — to a new city, to a new state — whether it will happen this time. When I close the door on my old life, will I manage to leave my unwanted baggage behind? Can I vanish my character flaws and send them to wherever all those good knives ended up, the ones that somehow just disappeared during the last move? Will I wake up for the first time under a new ceiling and have become a new and better person? It’s possible, right? I’ve moved half a dozen times in the last ten years and it hasn’t happened yet. But maybe this time it will. If not this time, maybe next time. Or the time after that. Or…

That’s not how life works, of course. The idea that you can go somewhere new and bring only the good parts of yourself along is a juvenile fantasy. But it’s a comforting fantasy. I always leave behind something tangible, why not the bad things?

I was flipping through an old composition book and found this note I wrote to myself, not long after I moved to Fort Worth a few years back:

Thinking a lot about how what I attend to is what makes up my life.

Then I found this a few pages later:

I wasn’t attentive enough today. I’ll do better.

It’s difficult to articulate what, precisely, gets lost in a long-distance move. I feel lucky to have kept a lot of important friendships alive through several such journeys, in part because it’s not too difficult to stay in touch (as long as I put in the time and effort) and also because I made some of my oldest friends on the internet. Sure, I miss some of the physical places that I leave behind: the good restaurants, the cool bars, the odd little quirks of a city that it takes months or years to discover. I miss being able to say, “Hey let’s go feed the ducks at that pond” or “I wanna go eat at that burger place where I’ve already spent way too much money this year.” But honestly, I enjoy the process of discovering new places so much that, for the most part, it offsets my melancholy.

I guess what I miss is not the material things so much as the sense that I had roots in a specific place. When the moving van rolls away, I often feel as though something has been severed, that I’ve left some important piece of myself behind that won’t grow back, at least not in the same shape. You can find a new coffee shop pretty quickly; that’s not difficult, there’s a good one within walking distance of my new apartment. But being able to walk in and know people, to have the accumulated memories of just being in that place day after day, year after year — there’s no quick way to replicate that. Meeting new people, building trust, making friends, making enemies (hopefully not many), and even just knowing basic things about the new place that’s now your home, all of that takes time.

I found this note too. It’s from a few years ago, right after a move. I kinda like it:

The bird seed is scattered across our concrete porch. Careless eaters, our local birds. I sweep the minuscule morsels into the bushes. Will they be eaten? Or will they somehow find soil and take root? Will the beds cradle sunflower stalks next spring?

I’m hyperaware that, for many folks, putting down roots never happens. A lot of people feel lonely and isolated; meaningful social connections are really hard to cultivate, especially when it takes so much effort to stay alive and out of poverty! I’m always a little anxious — especially as someone currently without a workplace and a full-time job — that maybe I won’t manage to put down those roots again; it happened last time, but what if it doesn’t happen this time? What if it doesn’t happen next time or the time after that?

I’m extremely grateful that I didn’t move alone, that I have a long-term partner who loves and supports me. But there are no guarantees, no hacks that will instantly ingratiate me with a new community. No one owes me friendship or a sense of belonging, and it’s not something that can be purchased. All I can do is commit to the slow work of being present in a new place, for however long I’m here.