A July Sunset as Seen from Mystic, CT
Born, raised, and educated in Boston I have always considered myself a true Bostonian. I love all things Boston; the excitement of the city, the abundance of culture found in countless museums, the access to the best medical care and education in the country, and the beauty of all four seasons. A die-hard Patriots and Sox Fan, Boston for me, is simply home. The Marathon Bombing was devastating to me. Watching my city and fellow Bostonians suffer so terribly not only saddened me, but angered me. How dare anyone come to our fine city and wage war? Watching the families of the victims speak to the media broke my heart. The attack did something else, though. Something the cowardice bombers never counted on. It united us as one. We suddenly became “Boston Strong,” and vowed justice for the victims and for our city, and we got it. Shutting down the city and mandating a shelter-in-place for all residents guaranteed the best outcome for our brave men and women in law enforcement. I loved Boston so much I thought I would raise my family there, just as my mother had before me, and her mother before her. And then life happened.
In 2013 my husband was offered a position at an extremely prestigious restaurant located on the Las Vegas Strip. At 32 years old, an offer to work in a restaraunt of this caliber and with chefs of this caliber was unprecedented. We knew he had to accept the offer. On March 1, 2013 my husband, our son, and myself tearfully boarded a plane to Las Vegas as our families waved goodbye from Logan. Leaving Boston and my family was one of the hardest days of my life.
We lived in a suburb of Las Vegas for nearly two years and by all means, we were very happy. We had a beautiful house in an affluent community, my husband was excelling in his work, our son had adjusted beautifully to the move, and I had managed to make a few dear friends. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t home and never would be. Every time I saw or read something in the news Boston related a pain struck me to my core.
After a visit from my family I tearfully confessed my feelings to my husband, I wanted to go home, badly. Our little boy missed our family dreadfully and so did I. I missed Boston, too. As luck would have it, right around the time I was confessing my yearning for home a recruiter began aggressively pursuing my husband for another exceptional opportunity in Connecticut. After some thought, we decided the offer was too good to turn down and Connecticut was close enough to Boston. I could make weekend trips, spend time at home during the Summer and school breaks, and I would no longer be absent from important family gatherings and holidays.
We landed in Connecticut on August 15, 2014 and immediately began house hunting. I had my heart on a small coastal town right over the Rhode Island border, but after much searching, we simply couldn’t find anything. After a long day of house hunting, stuck in the car, tired and hungry, we came to an unfamiliar intersection. My husband advised me to make a right hand turn and for some reason I’ll never know, I turned left. I had no idea where I was going but I kept driving. It was as if someone or something was guiding us; leading us to where we were meant to be. Soon we pulled into an adorably quaint, small, seaside village that looked like a place time had forgotten and I was in love. Immediately I knew this was where we were going to not only live, but spend our lives. My soul was awakened that day. Settling into our new home I couldn’t help but leave the boxes and unpacking to explore our new neighborhood. I spent countless hours walking through beautiful gardens and at the beach, listening to the sea as it whispered to me, “you’re home now.”
Our new neighborhood happened to be populated with wonderfully talented and creative people. Poets, painters, playwrights, and an esteemed horticulturist surrounded me. Because I was so at peace in my surroundings and so very inspired by my new neighbors and friends, I started doing something I always knew I was meant to; I started writing. Within six months of moving to Connecticut I was published in an online blog with tens of thousands of followers. I was finally home.
Though Boston will forever have my heart and I will always identify as a Bostonian, Connecticut has shaped me into the whole and complete person I am today. Before moving here I was only half living. Today, my heart and soul are wide awake and I’m alive.