The big move and the drama that it caused

I wrote this little essay-like thing about a month after I moved to Sacramento. Thought it was kind of fun :)


Moving to a new city is never easy. Even for the seasoned relocation pro (which I am not), there seems to be a grueling period of readjustment. It’s as if the body has to align itself with the rhythm of the new place and the brain has to remind itself over and over, “this is home.” It is during this time that one's sense of self is most strenuously tested, and the opportunity to discover what you are really made of presents itself.
This is the experience I have encountered in my recent move from the humdrum, small town “SLO” life of San Luis Obispo to the more bustling metropolis of Sacramento. The sense of anonymity in a city this size is almost stifling to a rural girl like me. In this move I feel as though I have gone from a place where everybody knows my name to a town where every face is chronically forgettable. In an attempt to make my own mug more memorable, I have gone through a period of identifying myself with that which seemed the least “Sacramento” to me: my small-town roots. I referred to my rural hometown experiences at every opportunity (yes, I was a 4-H’er for 11 years), said “y’all” a bit more than normal and hummed Garth Brooks incessantly. Labeling myself as the “country girl” seemed to provide a level of security, a niche of peace and safety within a maelstrom of change. However, as I adjust to life in this new place I begin to realize that my small town roots constitute only a miniscule part of who I really am. And while comforting for a time, relying on this form of identity is like desperately clinging to my underwear for warmth in the midst of a whirling blizzard.
So what is the answer? Where does my identity lie? Who am I, really? There are several things I can point out: I am a grad student, teacher, debate coach, friend, sister, daughter, niece, great-granddaughter, movie-watcher, singer, writer, crochet-er, and a plethora of other things I don’t have space to mention. But does this really constitute who I am? Or is there something more? Tonight at dinner, my friend Theresa and I decided to look for a church to attend Sunday morning. The ensuing online search made me think of the friends I left back home and the life I had built for myself there, which included a network of people who shared the same faith as me and, more importantly, a space in which I could take time to worship God freely. I then realized that I have made no such space here. I have relied on the possibility of going home this weekend or the next in order to get my “Jesus fix.” I realized that I have neglected my spiritual self because I moved in order to cultivate my academic self. At that insight, I began to feel a little more grounded and a little less scared. And although I won’t say that going to church will be a cure-all, I do believe that making this space for God in my new life is the first and most important step toward discovering my true identity in all its complex parts (although I don’t think I’ll give up “y’all” just yet).