“with the right people, a year is a lifetime. find the people who want to live lives with you.” Nayyirah Waheed

November 3, 2017, marked the beginning of the two-day, cross-country excursion that would literally and metaphorically redirect my life. Tim and I had already shoved the last of our suitcases and hastily-packed boxes into the back seats of both of our cars. Among the chaos were two anxious cats and one good pup who was just excited for a road trip. At 11 p.m., we hit the road with help from our friends Connor and Joey. And so began our move from Phoenix, Arizona to Chicago, Illinois.

I won’t say much about the ride itself other than this: great friends will help you pack two cars to the brim with clutter, but only best friends will help you drive these cars 1,800 miles–amid tested tempers, sleep deprivation, and pet blow-outs that force you to pull over at 5 a.m.–and still want to talk to you afterwards. (Pro-tip #1: Paying for their deep-dish pizza and Chicago-style dogs helps.)

After a long journey, we arrived in Illinois with just enough time to get a few hours of sleep before Tim and I headed to a 9 a.m. appointment, where we signed on seemingly endless dotted lines for our new home, located in the suburb of Grayslake. After about an hour spent developing writer’s cramp, we spent an additional hour making small talk and sipping now-cold coffee with a room full of realtors and office workers, waiting for funding to process and checks to clear. (Pro-tip #2: Do not expect buying a new home contingent on the sale of your old one to be an easy process. Tim and I have agreed that we will never willingly put ourselves through this experience again.)

At last, the office clerk arrived with the final signed copies of paperwork and a giant cardboard cut-out of a key for Tim and me to stand next to, another success story captured in a photo for the company Facebook page. But I’ll tell you what–I was so happy to get out of that office and begin moving our things into our new home that I had the biggest, cheesiest grin in every one of those pictures. Pretty sure I even gave a thumbs-up at one point.

And so began the process of making our 1940s-house a home. I assumed that once we turned the key and took our first steps through that doorway, we would spend the first evening snuggled together in a state of accomplished bliss. All the stress from the last two months preparing for the move would magically melt away. I would fill the time I had before starting my new job by lovingly throwing myself into every DIY project, of which there were many. Tim would lovingly kiss me on the forehead, wearing a freshly pressed suit, and dash out the door to nail his first job interview. Soon, our house would be an Instagram-worthy blend of eclectic vintage finds, with industrial finishes and a subtle boho flair. We would both settle back into our respective 9-to-5 careers and resume the life we were so accustomed to in Arizona, only this time including snow.

Of course, as you’re likely already aware, this was not to be. The first three months in Illinois were some of the most challenging times in my life and within our marriage. Discouraged by the lack of ease and predictability in our circumstance and pressured by a barrage of well-meaning questions from friends and family, Tim and I found ourselves at odds with one another. After all, we were the only friend the other had in this foreign place. So, we each took the brunt of the other’s frustrations and doubts.

However, this isn’t to say that there weren’t moments of bliss and excitement during those first few months. We loved exploring our new neighborhood. We frequented local coffee shops and used book stores, and took many happy Sunday morning walks watching the last of the autumn leaves fall to the grass. We anxiously waited for the local lake to freeze over, dreaming of ice skating and hockey games. I will never forget the first snowfall we experienced together, which occurred while we were out shopping for a new area rug.

Despite all of this, the moments in which I found myself getting stuck were those that carried with them no reassurance. During the dark, sub-zero December and January nights spent hauled up in an unfinished house, I often wondered aloud if coming here had been the best idea. Realizing that I did not want my experience in Illinois to be defined by those darker moments, I knew I had work to do.

Read part two here.