When Craig and I bought our first home six years ago, it felt like a dream we weren’t sure would ever come true. We had spent years hopping from rental to rental—nine in total—scattered across New York City, Brooklyn, Los Angeles, and eventually Rhode Island. Each move carried excitement, but also that lingering sense of impermanence. We longed for something different: a place of our own, where we could plant roots instead of cardboard boxes.
In 2017, that wish finally became real. We bought a house.
It felt monumental. Not just four walls, but a space we could truly make ours. There was room for our dog to run, corners we could fill with furniture we actually owned, and walls we could paint without asking permission. From the day we moved in, we rolled up our sleeves and started shaping it into the home we imagined.
Over the next four years, we poured ourselves into it. We renovated the kitchen, added a deck and pergola, built an addition, refinished floors, redid bathrooms, and planted a garden that we watched grow alongside us. Every project layered the house with more meaning, more of our story. It felt like our forever home—the place where we’d raise our daughter, the safe haven that carried us through the long months of lockdown when the world outside felt so uncertain.
Rhode Island was where we grew up. We thought it would be where our daughter grew up too. Until, quite unexpectedly, it wasn’t.
A Leap of Faith
In the spring of 2020, in the midst of a world turned upside down, we did something that, at the time, felt a little wild: we put an offer on a house in Vermont.
We hadn’t even seen it in person. With travel restrictions in place, we relied on photos, floor plans, and a gut feeling. We’d been casually browsing Vermont properties for years, drawn to the slower pace and natural beauty, but we never thought we’d actually take the leap. Then came the question that kept circling in our minds: If not now, when?
Before we knew it, we were homeowners—again. Except this time, it was in a place where we didn’t know anyone. We loved the town as visitors, but visiting and living there were two very different things. In those early months, doubt crept in. Were we out of our minds? Had we made a mistake?
That first year was hard. Covid kept everyone isolated. We had a newborn. We spent much of our time working on the house or shuttling back and forth to Rhode Island. Community felt distant, and loneliness was a frequent companion.
But slowly, things began to shift. As restrictions eased, we searched for daycare and, to our surprise, found an opening in Vermont. Taking it felt like a small but important act of commitment. That fall, winter, and spring, we stayed put. We began to meet families, form connections, and find our rhythm. By the time summer rolled around, Vermont didn’t just feel like a place we owned property—it felt like home.
The House We Said We’d Never Sell
Even as Vermont grew into our home base, we clung to our Rhode Island house. We always said we’d never sell it. How could we? We loved it. We’d invested years of sweat and care into making it ours. And deep down, we knew that if we let it go, buying again in that market would likely be impossible. Holding onto it felt like keeping a door cracked open—an escape hatch, just in case.
But life has a way of nudging you forward, even when you’re not looking for it.
In June, back in Rhode Island for the summer, something shifted. The house felt… different. Familiar, but no longer ours in the way it once was. Quietly, I admitted to Craig that I was thinking maybe it was time to sell. To my surprise, he said he had been feeling the same way.
I expected to feel conflicted about such a big decision. Instead, what I felt was clarity.
Choosing Peace Over Nostalgia
The process moved quickly, and before the end of the summer, we had sold the house. Driving away for the last time, I braced myself for the wave of regret I thought would crash over me. But it never came.
Instead, there was peace. A quiet, steady assurance that we were exactly where we were meant to be.
It wasn’t that Rhode Island stopped mattering to us. It will always be part of our story. It’s where we grew up, where we poured love into our first home, where we weathered one of the hardest years of our lives. But homes are not just buildings; they’re chapters. And that chapter had come to a close.
Now, our days unfold in Vermont. The mountains frame our mornings, new friendships fill our weekends, and our daughter is growing up in a place that feels steady and right. The leap of faith we once questioned has become the foundation we’re building on.
Letting go wasn’t easy. But sometimes, moving forward means trusting that peace is a better compass than nostalgia.
