The Light Beyond the Mountains

A New Chapter on the Coast

My two girls are outside barefoot on the grass, chasing fireflies through the last light of the day. Laughter spills into the air. For a moment, time stands still. I sit on the porch with my chamomile tea, watching them, knowing this is the last spring we’ll spend in Asheville, NC. I’m trying to soak it all in—the mountain air, the friendly waves from my neighbors, the song of the cardinal, the familiar scent of damp earth after rain, the way the Blue Ridge Mountains wrap around us, sometimes with a blanket of fog for extra comfort.

This has been our home for almost five years. We’ve grown and expanded in countless ways. I’ve watched my daughters fall more deeply in love with the Earth—thanks in large part to their school rooted in outdoor education. A place that values time in nature. Life in the country has also heightened their appreciation for the land. We garden and make tea from native plants. They wander through the neighbor’s fields to play in the creek and return with reports about the crawdads, the blue heron, the wild turkey, and the black bears. 

My oldest is graduating eighth grade this week. My youngest is saying goodbye to elementary school. We had every intention of staying in Asheville through high school. Then Hurricane Helene swept through our town and everything shifted. Our school closed indefinitely. We had no power, no water, no Wi-Fi, and no access to essentials like gas or food. Going to California to regroup, a place we once called home, felt like the best option. As our bodies and minds began to settle from the trauma, we felt something stir inside. That sensation reminded us that the golden California light was healing us individually. There was a lightness. A sense of freedom. A quiet renewal. A message from the sea. The ocean has always spoke to us.

My youngest heard it first. Then I smiled and nodded as the message became clear. Finally, my oldest got word. California was calling us back. We were ready to answer. Right on cue, serendipity stepped in. Opportunities began to appear. Subtle, unexpected, perfectly timed openings unfolded. Small miracles lined our path forward. 

There’s still an ache as we pack the boxes and prepare to move from another home. It’s like a pulled thread unraveling part of a tapestry that I have worked so hard to weave. However, alongside the grief is a not-so-quiet thrill. There is a bubble of excitement as I think about our future. New beginnings. Ocean breezes. Early morning surf. Redwood hikes. Fresh hope. Soul family. This isn’t just a move. It’s a return. A homecoming to the place where the girls were born, where their baby footprints pressed into the shoreline at Stinson Beach, and where we’d wander and daydream together through the redwood forests.

Every new chapter requires a letting go. Our family doesn’t look the way it once did. We’ve been rearranged and reshaped by circumstance. We’re learning to design a new kind of life. One rooted in intention, sprouting in courage, and blooming with audacity. 

The girls are watching me chart this course. And I want them to remember the moment life asked us to begin again. We listened. We let love lead. We trusted the unknown. We chose growth. We honored the voices of fear and doubt, but we knew those voices did not belong. 

Change isn’t the end of the story. It’s just the turning point. And the beauty is that we get to create our reality. Words will cast spells. Miracles happen. Dreams come true.

My kids are still barefoot and making their way towards me. At the ages of 14 and almost 12, I’m grateful they still play like children. Running wild and free was my vision for their childhood. A few unexpected turning points brought moments of heaviness. I have a deep sense that we’ll all be wild and free in California. We won’t be chasing fireflies, but we’ll keep moving towards the light.