Not with a bang, but with a whimper

I have left Michigan three times now.

First, right after graduate school, I left for my first job in Erie, Pennsylvania. I came back in a year. The next time, I left due to my second job to go to Germany. That time, it took four years to come back. More importantly, I came back as a different person to another Michigan and no more as just one. And then, 7 years later, after growing older with my wife and becoming a father, I left Michigan again yesterday.

Seven years is a large amount of time. I bought my first home there. My first serious sports car. My son was born and was raised through the covid years. Our marriage was seasoned from an extended honeymoon. Our families came to meet us there. We traveled around the country and the world but always came back home, regardless of the weather. We both grew professionally and lost critical tangibles in the fire. It was, by any definition, a true home for us.

I love being a wolverine, and a Michigander and am a true fan of the third coast. Yet, leaving it with a few suitcases did not feel overwhelming. It has not hit me yet, or perhaps the stress of making it work in Austin, Texas is so daunting that yearning seems like a luxury. I am certain that I will downplay the freezing cold, the lack of sunshine, and the feeling of loneliness and instead, glorify the fall and summer months as Austin melts. Since yesterday, I am already finding parallels between the Huron river meandering through Gallup park at Ann Arbor to the colorado river caressing Zilker park in Austin Texas.

It is a predictable state, to hold on to what you left behind. But I am doing it as a motion and not as an emotion. I continue being a paradox believing my roots are the place I go to next, not realizing that I have been planting roots everywhere I have been. I am eager to move. I hate moving. I am excited about finding a new home, I am not excited about the setup. I am so eager to no longer winterize my cars but am detesting the fact that I need a plate in the front.

This move feels dominated by my child’s well-being. I suspect its success depends on his happiness. If he enjoys the heat, I will be relieved. If he makes new friends, so can we. If he finds his roots, I might have to plant mine too. But for now, reminiscing over the great lake state seems unnecessary and backward. And perhaps, this departure, although the most significant, looks pretty minor and anti-climatic.

Or perhaps, as I get older, the drama is internal. Everyone else, apparently, has already moved on.