personal growth

A New Chapter: Helping Students Shine

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It’s been four months since I made the cross country move to Maryland, and what a whirlwind it’s been! I had hoped to start school, aka work, back in August, but a series of interview delays had me close to tears at times. Sometimes life has a funny way of testing your patience, but finally, everything aligned, and I was able to finally step into the interview process.

Starting a new position at any elementary school is both exciting and a little nerve-wracking. This is new territory for me since I’m used to being an Instructional Para, but every day is a chance to learn, grow, and sharpen my skills in my trade as a one on one Paraprofessional. Meeting new co-workers, connecting with students, and learning the ins and outs of this new environment will shape up to be an adventure I know I’ll be grateful for.

As for extra cash, DoorDash will be my little side gig, and just when needed, probably more during the summer months when school is out of session. It’s a small way to supplement my income without taking away from the focus I want to put into my work at the school.

Here’s to a successful school year filled with learning, laughter, and new connections (both with the students and my new colleagues). New beginnings are always a little scary, but there’s nothing quite like stepping into something that challenges you and helps you grow.

☕ Support the Journey

If this post resonated with you or made you feel a little less alone on your own path, you’re always welcome to support my writing with a cup of coffee. Your kindness helps me keep sharing real stories and new chapters, one step at a time: 👉 coff.ee/smalltownmichele

When the Universe Closes a Door, You Learn to Trust the Path

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There was a time I wanted the Universe to give something back to me, a love I wasn’t ready to lose. I kept hoping the door that closed would open again. But it never did. And for a while, that hurt more than I could explain.

It took me a long time to realize maybe the Universe wasn’t being cruel. Maybe it was protecting me. Maybe it knew I needed time to find myself again, to stop pouring so much energy into trying to understand someone else and start putting that same energy into healing my own heart.

When your heart breaks, it changes you. It makes you look at things differently. You start to notice where you gave too much, where you accepted less than you deserved, and where you confused chaos for connection. You start to see how often you held on when you should’ve let go.

I used to think healing meant forgetting. Now I know it’s more about remembering, remembering who I was before I lost myself in someone else. It’s learning to sit with my feelings instead of running from them, to find peace in quiet moments, and to trust that every ending has a purpose, even when I can’t see it yet.

There are still days when I miss what I thought my life would look like. That’s okay. Healing doesn’t mean the memories stop showing up. It just means they don’t control you anymore.

Now, when a door closes, I don’t chase it. I pause. I breathe. I remind myself that not everything that ends is meant to be lost. Sometimes, it’s just the Universe making room for something better, peace, clarity, and a deeper kind of love that starts within me.

Trusting the path isn’t always easy. Some days, it’s just one step at a time. But even in the hardest moments, I can feel something bigger guiding me forward. And for now, that’s enough.

If a door has closed for you recently, maybe it’s not the ending it feels like. Maybe it’s the Universe quietly shifting things to protect your peace, even if you don’t understand why just yet. Be gentle with yourself while you wait for what’s next. Sometimes, the hardest goodbyes lead to the most peaceful beginnings.

☕ Support the Journey

If this post resonated with you or made you feel a little less alone on your own path, you’re always welcome to support my writing with a cup of coffee. Your kindness helps me keep sharing real stories and new chapters, one step at a time: 👉 coff.ee/smalltownmichele

From the Bay of the West Coast to the Bay of the East Coast: My Journey Across the Country

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I grew up in the vibrant Bay Area of California, in San Jose, a bustling city with a population of over 839,000 in the 1990s. Life there was full of energy and activity, but I’ve come to realize that I feel far more content in smaller towns.

At 24, I moved to Ocean City, Maryland, a lively beach resort town with a smaller population of just 5,168 at the time, for an internship. Ocean City sits where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Isle of Wight Bay, right at the start of Highway 50. Living there gave me my first taste of East Coast life, and I began to appreciate the charm of small-town living.

After my internship ended, I returned to California, this time to South Lake Tahoe, a resort town perched at 6,250 feet in the Sierra Nevada Mountains along Highway 50 as well, right on the California–Nevada border. In 1998, the population was 23,378. It was there that I got married and welcomed my three children, who were born and raised amidst the snow, lake, mountains, and fresh mountain air.

For 15 years, we lived in Gardnerville, Nevada, a small town with a population of around 5,656, just a 30-minute drive from Tahoe. After my marriage ended, I moved back full-time to South Lake Tahoe because that’s where my heart was at the time. Having lived more than half my life in the Sierra Mountains, I knew I would never feel at home in a large city like San Jose again.

Eventually, Maryland quietly tugged at my heart, drawing me back to the East Coast. At age 52, my children, our animals, and I moved to Elkton, Maryland, a town of 16,064 and right outside the college town – literally just ten minutes from the University of Delaware. My oldest son just started 11th grade, my youngest son started 9th grade, and my daughter is beginning her first semester of college here.

Each place I’ve called home has shaped me in unique ways, teaching resilience, adaptability, and the beauty of embracing change. From coast to coast, from mountains to bays, and from resort towns to college towns, I’ve learned that home isn’t just a place; it’s the journey, the people you love, and the life you build along the way.

Uprooted, Adjusting, and Now Learning to Heal

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I feel like my whole life’s been flipped upside down lately. I packed up everything and moved 2,700 miles away from the place I called home for the last 27 years, all because I wanted a better future for me and the kids. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t expect the small things to get to me the way they have.

Take the water, for example. Not only does it taste off, but I don’t like all the stuff in it — the chemicals, the fluoride, the PFAS. It just doesn’t sit right with me. So I started filtering the water in the kitchen and even went as far as buying distilled water jugs for the bathrooms so we could brush our teeth with something cleaner. I even bought filters for the shower heads. It might sound over the top, but honestly, it gives me peace of mind.

Even with all that, I probably drink less water than I should. And now I’m realizing how much that might have been catching up with me. Yesterday I ended up in the ER for seven hours. They ran everything — bloodwork, urine sample, CT scan — and finally told me what was going on: diverticulitis.

So here I am on a three-day broth diet, on top of 10 days of antibiotics, and after that, I’ll have to completely change the way I eat. No corn. No popcorn. A whole list of things I’ll have to avoid forever. Which feels overwhelming, because I was already so limited with food. I’m gluten intolerant, allergic to chicken, and my body just rejects a bunch of other things. Now it feels like I’ve got to become a full-on food cop with myself just to stay healthy.

It’s exhausting. I already gave up so much by moving, and now my body is asking me to give up even more. But at the same time, I don’t really have a choice. If I want to be here for my kids and actually thrive in this new chapter, I have to figure out how to work with it.

I never imagined my “fresh start” would look like this — standing in my kitchen sipping broth, keeping mental tabs on everything I can’t eat, popping antibiotics, while giant jugs of distilled water sit in the bathroom. But here I am. And honestly? All I can do is take it day by day, and try to see it as part of the journey I was meant to be on.

☕ Support the Journey

If this post resonated with you or made you feel a little less alone on your own path, you’re always welcome to support my writing with a cup of coffee. Your kindness helps me keep sharing real stories and new chapters, one step at a time: 👉 coff.ee/smalltownmichele

🚗 A Lesson in Waiting: When the Car Finally Came

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Alex’s car finally arrived! We hadn’t had it since June 11th, but on July 12th, it was loaded onto a transporter and it made the long journey all the way from California to Maryland.

After more than a week of waiting, calls, delays, and vague updates, the car is finally here. And I’m grateful. But I’d be lying if I said the whole experience didn’t test my patience in ways I wasn’t quite prepared for.

The car had made it to Philly a week ago. I knew that much. And then… it just sat. Four whole days of sitting. Not moving, not progressing, not being delivered. Every day I called, asked for an ETA, and got the same uncertain tone on the other end. “Soon.” “Maybe tomorrow.” But tomorrow kept shifting.

And here’s the thing: I may not have had official updates, but I had other ways of knowing where the car was. Let’s just say I had eyes on the situation, aka an AirTag. I didn’t say a word to the delivery company, of course since some things are better left unspoken. But that quiet knowing, that silent tracking, made the waiting somehow feel even longer.

Because I knew it wasn’t stuck in traffic. It wasn’t on the way. It was just sitting still. Close, but not quite home.

And that’s where the real lesson came in – Waiting isn’t always about time, it’s about surrender.
Letting go of control. Resisting the urge to push. Choosing calm even when every part of you wants to scream, “Just deliver the car already!”

It reminded me how uncomfortable patience can be. Not the light, fluffy kind where you say “it’ll happen when it happens”, but the gritty, frustrating kind where you know what’s supposed to be happening, and it still isn’t. Sometimes in life, delays aren’t just setbacks, they’re gentle redirections guiding us exactly where we need to be, even if we don’t see it right away.

But eventually, the wait ended. The car showed up. Alex has wheels, and I’ve got a story (and a little more restraint) under my belt.

Turns out, patience isn’t about sitting still, it’s about what we choose to do while we wait.

☕ Support the Journey:
If you’ve ever waited for something that felt like it should have already arrived, while quietly tracking the chaos in the background, you’re not alone. If this post gave you a moment of “yep, been there,” feel free to support my writing with a cup of coffee: 👉 coff.ee/smalltownmichele

My Maryland Driver’s License Adventure

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Today I did the thing and went to the MVA (that’s right, not DMV… I’m still reprogramming my brain) and applied for my Maryland driver’s license! As a Recovering Californian, this feels like a milestone. I’m slowly shedding my West Coast habits, well, except for saying “the freeway.” I keep calling it that, and while no one here in Maryland has corrected me (yet), I know I’m sticking out like a palm tree in a forest of oaks.

On the East Coast, it’s all “highway” or “route.” You’ll hear people say, “Take 95” or “hop on Route 40”—not a freeway in earshot, linguistically speaking. But old habits die hard. I’m trying, okay?

Now, let’s talk about the real challenge: the vision test. I’ve got a cataract in my right eye that covers my pupil, and those little letters? They looked like alphabet soup. I finally gave in and put on my driving glasses at the suggestion of the MVA clerk for my right eye. I saw a smidge better, just enough to pass. So, yes, “corrective lenses required” will now be part of my driver’s license.

But the good news? I passed. I survived the MVA. And in 7–10 business days, I’ll be holding my shiny new Maryland license, officially making me a licensed East Coaster.

One more step on my “Leaving California” healing journey complete.

Next stop: learning to remember to say “MVA” and “highway”.

☕ Support the Journey:
From failing to call it a “highway” to barely passing the vision test thanks to my right eye doing its own thing, this Maryland chapter is already full of character. If you got a chuckle or felt a little less alone reading about my license saga, you can always fuel the ride with a cup of coffee at:
👉 coff.ee/smalltownmichele