The Weight of Goodbye

Wrapping up your life to start a whole new journey requires a ton of emotional load.

This isn’t the first time I’ve wrapped up my life, moved across the country, and started all over again. The first time was when I moved to Georgia as an untethered new grad—excited, full of potential, with nothing but possibility and promise ahead of me. The second time, I left Georgia through the grief and finality of a divorce, heading back to Wisconsin at the literal start of the pandemic.

This time? This time as something else. It was a mix of all of it—excitement, grief, pressure, uncertainty, purpose. It was leaving behind security and predictability. A friendly neighborhood. Familiar routines. Good jobs, family, friends. All so we could step into the complete unknown.

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Last summer, I took a huge step in my career and opened my own practice inside an orthopedic wellness clinic in Shorewood, Structural Elements. It was the first time I truly practiced in a way that aligned with both my personal and professional philosophies. I was treating the whole person, meeting them where they were, helping them build toward health and health literacy.

I also launched a dynamic movement class with a local yoga teacher. We collaborated to create a 60-minute experience that blended movement correction, nervous system regulation, and emotional awareness. We built a sweet little community that really got it—and valued what we were doing.

When we started considering this lifestyle change, I knew ending my business would be the hardest part. I’d made a three-year financial commitment. I was building momentum and relationships I cared about. Walking away wasn’t a failure, but it still felt like one. My team was encouraging. My patients were understanding. But even though it was my decision to step away, it still hurt.

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While trying to hire a PT to take over in my absence, I was also juggling interviews, offers, and recruiters as I tried to land my first travel contract. I work with a handful of recruiters from different companies—all vying for my business. Helpful, but exhausting.

I knew I wanted to start in the Southeast. That narrowed it down to only... seven states and a million variables.

We initially leaned toward an opportunity on the southern Georgia coast—it looked promising, and I was eager to get started. But once we weighed the risk of hurricane season and the reality of hauling our new home into that scenario, it was a no.

Next, we considered a skilled nursing facility in the western North Carolina mountains—a small town that truly needed help. But then another option surfaced: an outpatient ortho clinic, close to the mountains and a lake, and not far from larger cities. Ortho is my wheelhouse. The setting, the clinic culture, the location—all felt like a better fit.

So many layers went into that decision. What kind of work would I be doing? Would the kids have space to play and explore? Could we find a safe, affordable RV park nearby? Would we be able to find community? Could we cover our costs? What opportunities were available for Timur to explore?

We ultimately chose the third option—an outpatient clinic where we’d be parked at a lake resort with room to breathe and explore. We won’t know until we get there if we made the right choice, but on paper it feels good.

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Somewhere in the midst of all that, we realized we needed to rehome our labradoodle.

Archie had always been our gentle giant—the one who herded the kids and guarded their beds at night. We had asked my in-laws back in January if they could take him, and they were open to it... until we found out he was 30 pounds over their condo association’s pet weight limit. That was a no-go.

Then out of nowhere, Timur’s ex-wife reached out, asking to take him. It would’ve kept him in the family, with my stepdaughters visiting regularly. Seemed perfect. But ultimately, it wasn’t the right fit for him.

We reached out to the breeder, who was gracious and immediately posted to his labradoodle-loving community. Within minutes, Timur’s phone was blowing up—including a call from his mom, who insisted we not give him away to just anyone.

She began working on getting him approved to stay with her, and even if the association said no, Timur’s sister offered to help out. One week before departure, Archie was picked up by a transportation service that took excellent care of him and delivered him out of state to his new home.

He was greeted with a plush bed, his own space, and a whole lot of love. We miss him. He misses us. But we know he’s safe and cared for while we’re on the road.

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Speaking of rehoming pets, then there was Bubbles, Bo’s betta fish.

One by one, five different people had initially offered to take him, but for one reason or another, each possibility fizzled. I’d been trying to keep my mental load light, but every time another “Sorry, I can’t” came in, it added this small but nagging stress.

In the end, I called for a lifeline from my family, and my sister, Laura, stepped in. Bubbles now lives in her kitchen, swimming laps like he owns the place.

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I’d had the benefit of time and transparency when it came to wrapping up my business. Timur, on the other hand, couldn’t share his intentions with his work until it was time to give notice. He worried about how they’d react. But the response? Overwhelming support.

His boss offered to connect him with industry contacts in different states and even hosted a farewell gathering at his lake house. They spent the afternoon on the boat—one last hurrah with the sales team.

Pontoon adorned with a flag of the Man himself— “Best Dad in America” according to his girls :)

Once his news was public, the dinner invites rolled in. Friends wanted to hear more, spend time, soak up their friend before he left. A few said things like, “We haven’t gotten together nearly enough. It always felt like there’d be more time.” It was a reminder of how easily we start taking our people—and even our ordinary days—for granted, assuming there will always be more time.

We also had six family birthdays to celebrate—including our daughter turning 2, son turning 9, and older daughter turning 20. Two days before takeoff, we threw a giant themed party: a Hawaiian/Lilo & Stitch/Moana/Minecraft mash-up to honor all the kiddos’ favorites. My sister, Jenny, in her creative genius pulled it all together like magic. We floated in the pool, ate cake, and celebrated—one last joyful pause before everything changed.

Can you spot all themes seamlessly and beautifully incorporated?

Even Grandma joined the fun, fully clothed and all!

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But in the final days, it was mostly about the six of us.

Our younger stepdaughter came home from her college apartment for 10 days to celebrate birthdays and say goodbye. Our older stepdaughter was living with us for the summer, but she put aside her calendar to focus her time with us. Between them both, we had incredible help packing, cleaning, entertaining the toddler, and handling tasks we couldn’t do alone.

My mom stepped in too—taking the kids to the lake, laying with them for naps, putting them to bed while we worked into the early morning hours.

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Departure morning was full tilt to the finish. We were still cleaning, repairing a section of damaged floor, and throwing every last loose end into the RV—to be dealt with later. The cooler was packed with sandwiches, snacks, and whatever else we could scrape together to keep the kids happy for the first five-hour stretch.

We were about three hours behind schedule, but we were leaving on our terms.

Before pulling away, we stood in front of our home and took a final photo—our full crew of six, one last goodbye.

Then Timur, the little ones, and I stepped in front of the RV for another—the official start of our new journey ahead.

We felt as ready as we could be—exhausted, but excited. The to-do list was behind us. The road was in front of us. We were rolling into the great unknown, full of potential.

In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps. —Proverbs 16:9