After nearly eighteen years in Washington, DC, a cross-country move to San Antonio forced me to confront more than boxes and logistics. It meant saying goodbye to a career chapter, a community, treasured possessions, and pieces of my past I wasn’t ready to revisit.

Packing Up Nearly Two Decades of Life

As I write this from San Antonio, surrounded by boxes and the remnants of a life that once felt so permanent, I’m realizing that moving isn’t really about transporting your belongings. It’s about sorting through versions of yourself.

I’ve lived in the Washington, DC area since 2008. For nearly eighteen years, DC was where I grew up professionally, built friendships, bought a home, and imagined my future. Packing up that life was far more difficult than I expected.

The physical act of moving wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was opening boxes I hadn’t touched in years.

As I sorted through college memorabilia, early-career work clothes, and maternity clothes from a pregnancy that still feels recent, I found myself reliving different chapters of my life. Each item seemed attached to a memory from a time when life felt stable and predictable. There were outfits from jobs I once dreamed about, keepsakes from friendships that shaped me, and reminders of milestones that felt both distant and immediate.

Among the hardest boxes to open were the ones that belonged to my father. Since his death, I hadn’t been emotionally ready to go through many of his things. In the rush of daily life, work, and eventually motherhood, those boxes had remained sealed, waiting for a day when I felt prepared. Apparently, that day arrived disguised as a cross-country move.

As I sorted through his belongings, I found myself grieving him all over again. Every item seemed to carry a memory, a story, or a connection I wasn’t quite ready to lose. Deciding what to keep and what to donate felt less like organizing possessions and more like deciding which pieces of grief I was willing to carry forward. In many ways, packing for San Antonio wasn’t just about leaving DC behind. It was also about finding a way to honor my father’s memory while accepting that I couldn’t bring every reminder of him into the next chapter of my life.

Ironically, I have always wanted a more minimalist lifestyle. I’ve often looked around my house and wished I owned less. This move was my chance to finally let go of so many material possessions and close a chapter that had been years in the making.

Yet donating, selling, and throwing things away turned out to be much harder than I thought.

Half of our belongings had already been driven down to San Antonio, but figuring out what would make the final cut felt overwhelming. What I hadn’t anticipated was that packing would happen almost exclusively after my daughter went to sleep. With an infant’s schedule dictating the pace of life, what might have taken a few weeks stretched into months. Slowly, box by box, I packed away nearly two decades of life in DC.

Saying Goodbye to Friends, Neighbors, and My USAID Family

Saying goodbye was equally challenging.

Between nap schedules, finding a tenant for our home, and the endless logistics of moving, there wasn’t much time for long farewells. Looking back, I’m grateful for the large baby shower we had earlier this year. At the time, it felt like a celebration of our growing family. Now I realize it was also my goodbye to so many friends and loved ones in the DC area.

One of my favorite farewells came from my Brentwood neighbors. They organized a Lebanese breakfast for me and invited some of my closest USAID friends to join. It was simple, thoughtful, and exactly what I needed. Their kindness reminded me how fortunate I have been to build such a strong community over the years.

Even now, it feels surreal.

For so long, DC represented stability. It was where I built a career, found my footing as an adult, and created a home. I never imagined that chapter would end the way it did. Yet life has a way of rewriting plans when you least expect it.

Our Road Trip from Washington, DC to San Antonio

Then came the road trip.

We packed a rental minivan to the absolute limit. Between my belongings, a senior dog recovering from a torn ACL, our miniature schnauzer, a baby, and my companion, there was barely room to move. We mapped out a route that involved driving nine to ten hours a day, stopping every two hours for the baby and the dogs.

Honestly, I expected it to be miserable.

Instead, it was surprisingly manageable.

Every plan we made ultimately revolved around the baby. When she needed to eat, we stopped. When she needed a break, we adjusted. Our carefully planned schedule became more of a suggestion than a rule.

We spent nights at Red Roof Inns in Knoxville, Tennessee, and outside New Orleans, Louisiana. To my surprise, they were clean, comfortable, and incredibly pet-friendly.

Along the way, we drove through Alabama and Mississippi—two states I had never visited and, if I’m being honest, had always been a little nervous about. As it turns out, sometimes the places you’ve imagined from afar are just places. Highways, gas stations, rest stops, and people going about their lives.

The baby handled the trip remarkably well until the final day.

By then, she was done. Completely done.

There was crying. There was frustration. There was a moment when I simply stopped making eye contact because we all knew there was only one thing left to do: keep driving.

Sometimes parenting isn’t about solving the problem. Sometimes it’s about getting through the final stretch.

Arriving in Texas and Looking Ahead

As we crossed into Texas and approached San Antonio, I realized that the journey mirrored the larger transition happening in our lives. Things didn’t go according to plan. We adjusted constantly. We took breaks when we needed them. We carried a lot more than we expected.

And somehow, we made it.

DC will always be part of my story. It’s where I spent nearly half my life. But for now, that chapter has closed.

The boxes are still being unpacked. The dogs are still adjusting. The baby is settling into a new routine. And I’m still figuring out what comes next.

But after months of packing, sorting, donating, grieving, saying goodbye, and driving across half the country, we’re here.

For now, that’s enough.

And maybe that’s what this season is teaching me: not every chapter needs a perfect ending before a new one begins.