I helped Ryan move back to school again last weekend, and I could tell he was having some uncertainty about his junior year and the immediate future. For starters, it’s the year you start to realize, “Oh shit, college is half over, and I kind of have no idea what I’m doing.” At least for me that was the case. For him, I think it’s a combination of multiple big transitions coupled with the responsibility to really start to figure out where he’s headed. It’s heavy. And it didn’t help that he really enjoyed his summer job, which made him feel appreciated and simultaneously put a nice chunk of change in his bank account. The good news? He’s in control of what happens next. I keep trying to encourage him to go get the life he wants for himself and remind him that he’s in the driver’s seat. In my mama heart I hope he won’t wait around for his life to happen to him– or worse, settle for something that looks good on paper–because it might not end up being what he really wants.

It’s easy–especially when we’re young– to falsely believe we have unlimited time in this world to figure things out, and that Right Now doesn’t matter as much in the whole big scheme of things. So it’s tempting to delay the hard decisions and put off making changes to some ambiguous future time when we’ll eventually “get around to it.” But one thing I can say for certain is that life hardly ever changes for the better unless you change it.

As my life here in North Carolina develops more layers and becomes richer through experience, I’m realizing that even though I didn’t really know what I was doing when I relocated to a random unknown-to-me town, I have turned this place into home, and I can honestly say that I’m going after the life I want. The first step (picking up and actually moving) was the hardest, because there were so many unknowns. I had no idea if I would thrive someplace new, much less even like it here. I was afraid of leaving everything and everyone familiar. I was terrified of being lonely. I had no idea whether I remembered how to make new friends, and what the people here would be like.

At the same time, I knew that something was missing in my day-to-day life in Ohio, even though it was tough to pinpoint exactly what that meant. When you live someplace for 20+ years it can become extremely difficult to see outside of your immediate surroundings and the comfortable life you’ve already built. The challenge is multi-faceted. First, you need to be open to recognizing if you’ve outgrown your current situation, then determine what might be missing, and finally, decide whether you’re ready to change things a bit. It involves some intense self reflection, a lot of patience, and a deep desire to do things differently even if it’s scary.

For some, the security and comfort of staying in the same place their entire lives (or the majority of it) can be completely fulfilling. I grew up in a small town, that to be honest is likely a place I would enjoy living at this stage of my life more than I ever did when I was young; it’s charming and lovely. And every time I go back to visit family there, it feels like a warm blanket. But when I was growing up in Granville, I couldn’t wait to get out and see what else there was to explore. Now I’ve ended up in another small town– this time in the mountains–where things are so completely different from what I’m used to, yet life here feels almost innately familiar and is full of so many people and things that continue to make me feel more and more whole.

Being here fills me up in ways I’ve never experienced. If you’ve ever had a scrapbook full of pictures and magazine clippings of your favorite things, or did one of those vision boards that are supposed to help you “manifest the life you want,” this might resonate with you. This place that’s now home provides so much that brings genuine contentment and peace to my life. When I stop to really reflect on why that is, I realize that I (half accidentally and half intentionally) have started building a life that is almost exactly what I would have scrapbooked for myself when I was 15, when I was just starting to figure out who I was before life got more complicated.

For a good long time, I lost sight of the girl who played in the woods, climbed trees, and was constantly covered in mosquito bites and pine sap. I hardly ever wore shoes if I didn’t have to. Picking rhubarb and peas straight off the vine, wearing cut-offs and Birkenstocks, driving with the windows down, going to concerts in the summer, and listening to the Dead made me feel relaxed and full of joy for reasons I couldn’t explain–it just felt like ME.

In my 20s and 30s I became too busy trying to build a life that looked good or seemed like it was what I was supposed to be doing, that I didn’t really stop to question whether or not it felt authentic or was composed of the stuff that truly mattered to me. I was on autopilot and not particularly happy. In order for anything to change for the better, I had to break out of the rhythm I had created for myself, and slow down for a second. I had to start listening to that 15-year old who was still in there somewhere, whose voice is finally growing louder again after a long time of being silent. I owe a lot of that to my new surroundings.

Brevard is a place where people say hi to each other. It’s a town where people live because they choose to. People are happy to simply be here. On my street, we wave when we drive by someone walking, even if we don’t know one another. The thoughtfulness of others manifests in so many ways, and seems to pass from one person to the next. I borrowed my neighbor’s car the other day to get to tennis practice when my car was in the shop. We all take turns watching each other’s cats when we’re out of town. We look out for one another. I have developed some of the kindest, most honest and sincere friendships, for which I am endlessly thankful for. These relationships first began through common interests and ideals, but have grown through a deep mutual respect and care for one another as individuals, as well as the shared belief in simply treating other humans with love and kindness.

One thing that connects people here is celebrating and respecting nature and its gifts. Everyone knows what LNT, BRP, and PNF stand for, and I’ve never seen so many people have such strong feelings about native versus invasive plants. The white squirrel is revered in Brevard and even has its own festival every year. On any given day, most people typically know what the fire danger level is and whether there are burn bans in place. We have a well and a septic tank, and our house is 100% electric with the exception of our propane stove. I know several people who raise chickens, who are regularly offering me eggs. I made cherry jam the other day and gave away jars to my friends. I have hummingbirds I’m starting to recognize by their chattering, and herbs that I’ve actually kept alive all season. The norm is to recycle as much as possible, and it’s free. A lot of people even COMPOST. The daily opportunities to get out into nature aren’t just abundant, they’re life giving. For me, they are necessary.

It’s a different, slower pace here than what I’m used to. There is less concern over appearances and success, and more focus on quality of life and function. Independently-owned restaurants and shops are abundant, and people are invested in supporting them (which is something I also loved about Dayton). There are bike shops, potteries, and outdoor outfitters on every corner, and on the other side of the mountain is an outpost that has live music on Sundays and everything from gasoline and coffee to fresh pizza, spinach pies, ice cream sandwich cookies, beer on tap, and the best tortilla chips I’ve ever had. The savory strudels and quiches from the farmers’ market are addictive.

The entire summer is literally one big music festival. Fall is glorious and seems to last for months. Since this part of the Blue Ridge is a temperate rainforest, we get about 80 inches of rain every year, but instead of the rain lingering for days on end, we get some really cool storms and sudden downpours, and then the sun reappears like nothing ever happened. The elevation keeps the humidity at bay most of the time. It rarely gets bone-chillingly cold. Sometimes I can even wear flip flops in January. The sunsets are gorgeous, and the winter sunrises (and hikes) are even more so. The air is clean. There are trees EVERYWHERE.

These are all things I had been missing–bits and pieces of my younger self that never got a chance to fully grow and bloom. It’s not that life in Dayton wasn’t good (and sometimes truly great). The difference is that my life just has more layers now, that are based on things that feel most authentically like me. And all of it fills my soul with contentment and meaning. I had no idea that being here was what I needed until recently–nearly two years after I made the decision to pick up and go. I didn’t know what was missing in my life, but I went out and found it anyway. Don’t be afraid to go get the life you want. Be willing to listen to yourself, and when the time is right, go.