Freedom vs. belonging

Here I am, parking my Subaru and unpacking my bags, settling into a life in Minnesota. I'd be lying if I said I don't miss the road. I'd also be lying if I said I wasn't tired of constantly starting over.

There's something beautiful about being a traveler. You get to meet people without carrying the weight of history. There aren't many expectations. You show up, connect, and eventually move on. For a long time, that felt like freedom. Everything exists in the present.

The problem is that eventually you realize freedom and belonging don't always live in the same place. So I settled down. What I didn't fully account for is how hard it is to make connections as an adult in a new place.

I've moved before, but those moves were different. I was moving with a partner, which meant I was immediately pulled into an existing community. There were built-in relationships, invitations, and familiar faces. The foundation was already there. I just had to find my place within it.

Minnesota was my choice. Partly for a job, sure, but also for the state itself. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with the spirit of place. The people, the hardiness, and the community that come with harsh winters, and fighting the good fight for neighbors. I was drawn in by Bruno Press, but wanted to stay for the community I witnessed.

What I didn't realize was that choosing a place and belonging to a place are two very different things.

Now comes the hard part. Building a life somewhere means letting people know you long enough to see the rough edges. It means showing up again after the first conversation. It means risking awkwardness, rejection, and all the other things that come with genuine connection.

If I'm being honest, some days I'd rather point the Subaru west and disappear into another adventure.

There is comfort in being the new person. There is freedom in knowing that every relationship comes with an expiration date. You can be fully yourself in a moment and then keep moving before anyone asks too many questions.

But roots don't grow that way.

Community asks something different of us. It asks us to show up when it's uncomfortable. To keep coming back. To let ourselves be seen. To risk investing in people before we know what we'll get in return.

I think that's the part I've been wrestling with lately. Not whether Minnesota is the right place, but whether I'm brave enough to stay still long enough to become part of it.

Of course, we all want connection. Humans are built for it. We long to belong somewhere, to know and be known, to create a life intertwined with others. I want that. I want roots. I want community. I want people who know my story and stick around long enough to become part of it.

But the space between wanting it and having it is uncomfortable.

Sometimes it makes me miss the road—the freedom, the anonymity, and the relationships with built-in expiration dates. There was safety in knowing that eventually everyone would move on, including me.

But here I am. In Minnesota. Making a go of it.

Trying to connect. Staying. Trying to be vulnerable and authentic all in the same breath.

And while some days I'd still rather point the Subaru toward the next horizon, I know that's not all I'm looking for anymore. What I want is community. I'm just finding out that building it is a lot harder—and a lot more vulnerable—than staying on the move.

For now, I'm hanging up my hat and seeing what happens when I stop chasing the next adventure and start building something where I am.

I'll keep you posted.