On September 1st, 2024, my family did something that both terrified and exhilarated us.
We left our community and the lifestyle we’d known to follow a dream we’d been pulled toward and afraid of for over a decade.
Our little city-family of three moved out to the rolling hills of the Driftless region of Wisconsin–45 minutes from the nearest town of more than 5,000 people.
The first time I’d visited this region almost 15 years ago, I’ll never forget the moment I was standing on a farm surrounded by trees, hills, chickens, cows and a sky that was a deep, winking blue, and feeling my heart soar.
I couldn’t explain why even though I’d never been to this region before, I suddenly felt so deeply and profoundly home. In every visit since, that feeling never went away.
Even so, within the comforts of city-living convenience, the idea of moving “to the country” was terrifying. Though my heart was sold on the very first visit, my head held strong to protest.
Why would we move away from all of our friends?
What if it made us isolated? I couldn’t do pandemic-loneliness again.
What about all the work it would surely add?
What if we hated it?
What if we regretted it?
This just didn’t make any practical SENSE.
So we stayed. My heart pined, but my head was content. And I limped along like this: one happy foot in the convenience of the known, and one always pointed out.
Until one day several years ago, in the height of toddler-parenting and pandemic isolation. My partner and I had left Madison, WI for a hike in the Driftless. I remember stepping out of the car into the sharp air, and I felt my entire world expand like a vacuum seal had been released.
As turkey tracks dashed our path and the scent of burning wood wafted, I felt parts of me wake that I hadn’t realized had been sleeping. The rolling sea of white seemed so much bigger, calmer, more alive than anywhere I’d been in months. I felt alive. More than that, I felt again that deep, resting familiarity of home.
That was the moment I decided.
We needed to stop wondering.
There might be much unknown, but I did know how much these trees, these hills, these animals tracks made my heart flip.
I knew that all of me wasn’t content sitting where we were.
I knew that foot wasn’t going to stop pointing me here.
I realized then that there must be a good reason the dream hasn’t left. That perhaps my job was to trust that that was enough.
So we decided to get serious about it.
And last spring, when we found a place that made our hearts sing, we finally took the leap.
I thought I’d feel nothing but elation—but in the months since, I’ve found my head had some good sense.
This has been a journey, in more ways than I imagined.
Mice—so many mice. Snakes in a wall. Mystery smells. Hundreds of hours of work.
But also meeting things my heart already knew, as if from a primal memory: wood stove magic. Hundreds of stars. Animal tracks in the snow. Wind in the trees that sounds like the ocean.
There is a feeling here that carried me most in the earliest days here, when I was still swimming in fear, panic, and doubt. It was visceral. I struggle to find the words for it. The only way I can describe it is feeling held.
I’d never had this feeling at home before, having always been in an urban community, surrounded by a human bubble.
But here, I look outside and I am constantly reminded of how small I am in this giant, complex ecosystem–how powerful it is on its own. Every creature in this stretch of woods is working, in its own way, toward health, healing, and collective resilience.
I can see just how vast the sky is, how strong roots can be. And I’m surrounded by this strength.
I know now that this strength was what drew me. I could feel it on that first, Driftless visit before I could name it.
And in our world of increasing uncertainty and division, I think so many of us are longing for a connection to that strength–of something wiser, older, and more resilient than fear.
As we continue navigating firsts and challenges in our adjusting to this new life, it’s what I hold onto. It’s what steadies me when I start to worry about the day-to-day. It’s what anchors me when I start feeling panicked about the world around us.
I remind myself of the strength of our world, of all the forces for cooperation and healing that exist: in the animal world, in the plant world, in the human world, in the air, in the past, and in the future.
Our hearts always know the way back to connection, even if our heads forget. And though it might take a leap, there can be something stronger than fear waiting for us on the other side.
By Jeanne Wolz
