Uprooted: Finding Alignment in the Whirlwind
If you read my last post, Call to Change, then you know I’ve spent the last year diving deep into myself to uncover my divine path and purpose. This work hasn’t been easy, at times, it’s felt like free-falling into the unknown with no sense of direction, and at other times, like peeling back layers of my shadow self to heal wounds buried deep beneath. But one thing has kept me devoted to this path: the intuitive knowing that I’m heading toward something greater. Something my life has prepared me for. Something that feels like true purpose.
The Leap Across the Map
In the month since I last wrote on the blog, everything has changed. I took the leap and moved 2,200 miles east, back to my homeland in Illinois. With the help of my amazing dad, I built a lab from the ground up — a sacred space where I can create from the heart. And now, I’m standing at the edge of my next great test: building a cottage on my family’s 80 acres of rural land.
This journey has been a whirlwind and definitely has brought to the surface many emotions. It has not been easy to leave the Pacific Northwest, a beautiful wonderland that I have called home for 11 years. As I drove away from the mountains, tears streamed down my face. I grieved the lush forests, the misty mornings, the community I had built. But as I held my dog each night of the drive and laughed with my parents — people I’ve only seen once a year for the last decade — I felt something shift. I realized that home isn’t a place. It’s a feeling. It’s the people who hold you. And while I was leaving one beloved community behind, I was returning to another, just as vibrant in its own way.
The Chaos of Transition
Once I arrived, the fear hit me. Had I made a huge mistake? As someone with OCD, living out of boxes in a space I couldn’t fully control was overwhelming. I knew I’d be staying with my parents while I built my home, but I underestimated how intense the shift from independence to shared space would feel. Since I was 18, I’ve lived on my own, completely solo (aside from my partner and his daughter). I cherish having my own space, curating the energy, creating sanctuary. Here I must balance living with other people again and that has been a challenge.
But slowly, as I unpack each box and infuse the spaces I do have with intention, peace begins to return. Through daily journaling and constant self-check-ins, I’ve kept myself from spiraling. When panic rises, I return to the vision. I remind myself why I’m here. I take it one small task at a time. And I’ve learned that when I feel overwhelmed, the most loving thing I can do is pause. Breathe. And begin again. So that is exactly what I have been doing. Slowly adjusting, trying to find my new routine, my new normal.
Realignment in the Rubble
Uprooting shakes everything loose. It stirs the sediment at the bottom of your being. And in that swirl, it’s easy to lose sight of the path. But I’ve found that alignment doesn’t come from control– it comes from devotion. From returning, again and again, to the truth that lives beneath the noise.
Each morning, I light a candle and write. I let the words flow without judgment. I walk the land and listen to the wind. I rearrange the corner of my room until it feels like mine. These small acts, seemingly mundane, are sacred. They remind me that I am not lost. I am in process.
There are days when I grieve the moss-covered trails and the mountain air. And there are days when I feel the pulse of something ancient beneath my feet here in Illinois. Something that knows me, that welcomes me home. I am learning to hold both. To honor the grief and give myself grace. To trust that this transition is not a detour, but a deepening.
So if you’re in the midst of your own uprooting,whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, know this: you don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to keep showing up. One breath, one brave step at a time.
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