In 2015, I spent two weeks traveling between Portland, Oregon, and Seattle, Washington, trying to decide which city felt more like home and where I could envision raising my kids. At thirty-six, I was more than ready to leave the bubble I had been raised in, even if I had no real way of grasping what that actually meant.
During that trip, we did a little shopping. Nothing we couldn’t find back home, but still, it was a day for the girls to get out and enjoy what could potentially become our new normal.
I purchased a pair of black booties.
They were suede and fur-lined. Something my Texas feet envisioned needing for those Pacific Northwest winters. The black fur peeked out just an inch or so above the booties, leaving the silver buckles exposed. They were cute. Something I’d never wear in Texas but assumed I’d practically live in during the winter months.
I was right.
With the right job offer on the table, Bellevue, Washington, soon became home. We sold what we could, packed up everything else, said a million goodbyes, and drove off into a life-changing unknown.
To this day, it remains one of the best decisions I have ever made.
I learned more about myself in one year of living outside my safety nest than I ever would have had I stayed home. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t easy to leave, and there isn’t a day I don’t miss my family and friends. However, the friendships I would soon make, the career I would stumble my way into, and meeting the man I’d spend the rest of my life with—I’m not quite sure how any of those things would have come together had I not been willing to brave the unknown.
Memories are a funny thing.
Most of us don’t spend much time dwelling on the negative parts of certain chapters in our lives. We look back and appreciate the laughter, the job promotions, or maybe that random coffee shop meetup that turned into something meaningful. Rarely do we reflect on the struggles of paying bills, layoffs, or just how incredibly hard it was to build a new tribe after leaving everything, we’d ever known 2,500 miles behind.
It wasn’t easy. And yet, it was exactly where I needed to be.
I’ve now lived in Montana for almost six years, and I would be lying if I said it has been an easy road for me.
My political beliefs don’t exactly align with the local keyboard warriors. I’m outsidey, NOT outdoorsy. And, for the life of me, why can’t we have a real mall?
Still, being here is a choice I made. I’ve committed to staying until the last one graduates. Only six more years to go!
But here’s the funny thing.
For the past three years, I’ve been trying to find the perfect pair of black boots.
I own several pairs. Some with heels, most flat, and nearly all with some sort of promise to keep my feet warm through the Montana winters. They’re perfectly fine boots.
But I don’t love any of them.
This morning, while watching some Hallmark-level Christmas movie—yes, I know it’s only October—I had a realization.
It was never about finding the perfect pair of boots.
You see, those black suede booties from the Pacific Northwest eventually stopped serving me. They weren’t made for the kind of cold Montana winters I’ve come to know. But truth be told, I wore those boots out!
I believe they were the first pair of shoes I ever truly wore the bottoms off.
They were easy enough to slip on for a walk with the dog but cute enough to wear out for the evening. They carried me from coffeehouses to shopping trips, through first dates and last dates. They were there for first kisses in parking garages and, eventually, became the boots I packed into a box bound for Montana.
Those boots traveled countless miles between Seattle and Portland and even made their way to Ottawa, Canada.
They walked through the door with me on the first day of what would become a fulfilling career. They carried me into unfamiliar rooms, new friendships, and opportunities I never could have imagined back in Texas.
And they were the boots I stood in when I finally found the courage to use my voice in a relationship that no longer served me.
Those boots witnessed a version of me I hadn’t yet met when I purchased them.
A woman who was brave enough to leave everything familiar behind. A woman who stumbled, struggled, laughed, loved, and learned. A woman who discovered that sometimes the greatest gift you can give yourself is the willingness to step into the unknown.
And suddenly, sitting on my couch watching a ridiculously predictable Christmas movie, it hit me.
I haven’t been shopping for the perfect pair of black boots. I’ve been shopping for a feeling of belonging.
A feeling I associated with a time in my life when everything was new, exciting, terrifying, and full of possibility. A time when I was discovering who I was outside the world I’d always known.
We do better when we know more.
And I know more now.
Funny how it took a movie I’ve seen no fewer than ten times in two years to realize what I’ve been searching for all this time.
While I know my soul longs to live on the water, surrounded by a community that loves its people more than it loves its tax dollars, I also know something today that perhaps I didn’t fully understand before.
No matter where I am, I am home.
Not because of the city I live in, the people who surround me, or the shoes on my feet. But because I’ve spent years learning who I am, what matters to me, and how to create a life that feels authentic, even when the circumstances aren’t exactly what I envisioned.
Those boots didn’t give me courage. They didn’t create the friendships, build the career, or teach me to find my voice.
I did those things.
They just happened to be along for the journey.
Cue the sappy music and a few tears, but there is something so incredibly heartwarming about realizing I don’t need another pair of black boots. I don’t need to recreate a chapter of my life that was beautiful because of who I was becoming.
I simply need to slow down long enough to appreciate the beauty of the chapter I’m in.
Maybe Montana isn’t my forever home. Maybe someday I’ll wake up to the sound of water outside my window, walk to a neighborhood coffee shop, and spend my weekends somewhere with an actual mall.
Or maybe life will surprise me in ways I haven’t even begun to imagine.
Either way, I no longer need a pair of boots to remind me what belonging feels like.
My bank account will certainly thank me.
And more importantly, I’ve realized that it’s perfectly reasonable to want to be happy while still dreaming of something different.
I am happy.
This was written by our contributing writer, Tiffani Morgan.
Image Source: Pexels, Siarhei Nester
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