If you’d asked me a year ago if I’d ever leave Georgia, I would have laughed, the kind of laugh you only give when you’re sure of yourself. Georgia is home. It has been for as long as I can remember. It’s the kind of place where roots don’t just grow deep — they twist and knot themselves into the red clay until you couldn’t pull them out if you tried. And for most of my life, I’ve had no interest in trying.
I was born there, raised there, and if you’ve ever lived in a small Southern town you know what that means. You don’t just belong to your family, you belong to the whole community. People know what church pew your grandmother sat in, who fixed your daddy’s car back when gas was thirty cents a gallon, and how many times you won or lost the pie contest at the fall fair. Small town Georgia isn’t just on the map — it’s stitched into me.
But here’s the thing about roots: sometimes, if you’re not careful, they stop feeding you. They keep you grounded, yes, but they also keep you still. And somewhere along the way — maybe it was while folding laundry late at night for the thousandth time, maybe it was standing in line at the Piggly Wiggly listening to the same town gossip I’d heard three times that week — I realized I’d stopped asking myself what else might be out there.
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Georgia has given me so much: family, faith, traditions that shaped who I am. There’s comfort in knowing where every road leads and whose truck you’re hearing pull up long before it comes into sight. But comfort can turn into a kind of sleepwalking if you’re not careful. And I woke up one morning and thought: when was the last time I did something just for me?
The truth is, I can’t remember.
So when the chance came — a friend of a friend with a little cedar-shingled cottage sitting empty in a harbor town in Maine — I surprised myself by saying yes. Not “let me think about it,” not “maybe next year.” Just yes.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not running away. Georgia is still my home. My people are still there. But I am giving myself permission to step away, for just a little while, to see what it feels like to breathe different air.
And let me tell you, it feels strange.
For one, everyone assumes I have a plan. They ask, “What are you going to do up there?” As if you need a reason beyond wanting to sit on a porch and watch a harbor wake up. I’ve said, “I’m going to write,” which is true — I’ve got more half-filled notebooks than casseroles in my freezer. I’ve said, “I want to try something different,” which is also true, though vague enough to end the conversation.
The real answer is simpler: I want to remember who I am when I’m not defined by the same routines, the same faces, the same expectations. I want to feel like a beginner again, even if it’s just figuring out how to order a lobster roll without sounding like I’m auditioning for a cooking show.
Leaving hasn’t been easy. The packing was the least of it — it’s the goodbyes that get you. My neighbor, Mrs. Turner, stood in her yard with her arms crossed, pretending not to cry while slipping me a dozen eggs from her hens “for the road.” My sister hugged me so tight I thought she’d cracked a rib, whispering, “Don’t you go liking it up there too much.” And church last Sunday felt like I was watching my life through a window, everyone telling me they’d keep my seat warm.
But beneath all the goodbyes, there’s a flicker of excitement I can’t shake. The thought of driving north, of watching the landscape change from pine trees and kudzu to rocky coasts and lighthouses, makes me feel lighter. Scared, yes, but lighter.
I don’t know what I’ll find in Willowford. Maybe it’ll be nothing more than fog and fish and a few funny stories about Yankees who talk too fast. Or maybe it’ll be something I didn’t even know I was missing.
What I do know is this: for the first time in a long time, I’m saying yes to something uncertain. And for me, that’s reason enough to start packing.
So here I am, bags half-zipped, coffee growing cold beside me, heart pounding in that mix of fear and anticipation you only get when you’re about to step into the unknown. Georgia will still be here when I come back. But for now, I’m headed north.
Not forever. Just for now.
And that feels like exactly what I need.
