A Chapter I Didn’t Expect to Love

When we first moved to San Antonio, it felt like everything was wrong.

We had rented a tiny house we had never seen in person—a cramped, dirty place that didn’t fit our family or our life. It was a harsh contrast from the small town I grew up in. The traffic, the neighborhoods, the city energy—it was overwhelming. I had never lived in a big city before, never even lived in a real neighborhood. The adjustment was brutal, and I was not happy.

We had originally planned to stay in San Antonio for five to seven years while my husband started his sales career. But within months, I told him, “There’s no way I’m making it more than three.” The dream had always been to end up on land, to raise our boys somewhere slower, quieter, freer. And this just wasn’t it.

But slowly, something shifted.

Once we bought our first house, things began to settle. I found a rhythm. I began to feel at home. I started to genuinely enjoy where we were. We found a new ward (church congregation), and I received a calling to serve with the young women, ages 11–13. At first, I was excited because I thought I had a lot to offer them. I thought I was going to be a strong leader, someone who could really make a difference.

But the truth is, I needed them far more than they needed me.

That calling saved me. For weeks, it was the only reason I left the house. And while being a mother brings me deep purpose, doing it mostly alone—while my husband was gone most of the time and no family around —was exhausting and isolating. But these girls, and the leaders I served with, gave me something I didn’t know I was missing: a village. A real one.

They loved me and my boys without conditions. They showed up. They cared. And in doing so, they healed something inside me I didn’t realize was still hurting.

I had always felt like I was hard to love. That I was too much, or not enough. That I didn’t quite fit anywhere. I had support before—family in Utah, love and purpose as a missionary in Peru—but it always felt like people were there because they had to be. Because they were assigned to be. But here… in San Antonio, for the first time, I felt like people saw me. No expectations. No roles. Just me. And they loved me anyway.

That kind of love changed me.

It reminded me that I wasn’t broken. That I was worthy of connection. That my presence mattered, even when I had nothing polished or perfect to offer.

Every Thursday night and every Sunday, I had a place. A seat at the table. A reason to get dressed and show up. Sometimes, it was the only thing in my week that made me feel seen. And that was enough.

Now, as we pack the truck and leave this chapter behind, I’m heartbroken. I’m grieving the girls I won’t see grow up, the friends I won’t see week to week, the home we thought we’d live in for five years but are leaving after not even two.

Yes, I’m excited for our future—for land and space and a simpler life—but right now, I’m just really sad. Because San Antonio, against all odds, became a piece of my heart. And saying goodbye to it feels like saying goodbye to the version of myself that finally felt accepted.