There are some seasons of life you can’t imagine ever wanting to leave. I lived in one of those. Imagine a river running through the middle of your world, enormous Cypress trees lining its banks and providing shade for what felt like miles. Children spent summer days swimming in the river, chasing fireflies at night and building forts in between. It was the kind of place where community wasn’t something we talked about creating. It simply existed. People loved deeply, laughed often and showed up for one another without question. My sons grew up there. And I did, too.

Professionally, I had the opportunity to learn from an extraordinary leader, lead an excellent team and work alongside some of the best people I knew. I was doing meaningful work with people I loved in a place that felt almost impossibly beautiful. Why would anyone leave that? I certainly didn’t want to.

And Then My World Changed.

Suddenly, I was leaving the place I loved. My sons were grown. The job that had been such an important part of my life was behind me. And I was moving from Cypress trees, rivers and open spaces to what felt like a concrete jungle—too many highways, too much noise and, as far as I could tell, no ideal job waiting for me. This did not feel like the exciting beginning of a new chapter. It felt like a disaster. And for two years, I fought it. I wanted what had been. I wanted the place where I knew who I was and where I belonged. I wanted the community, the work, the beauty and the life that had fit me so well.

Maybe that’s one of the hardest things about seasons of change. Sometimes the season we’re leaving wasn’t bad. Sometimes it was wonderful. We understand wanting to escape painful seasons. But what do we do when life asks us to leave something we love?

Digging Deeper

For a while, I thought the answer was to somehow find my way back—to recreate what I had lost or find another version of it. Instead, the change forced me to dig deeper. Away from the organization, the title, the leader I had learned from and the team I had led, I had to ask myself what was actually mine. What had I learned? What strengths had I developed? What did I know how to do now because I had been privileged to spend those years learning and practicing in such an extraordinary environment? And perhaps most importantly: What could I build with all of it?

Those questions eventually became the beginning of my leadership development and team training business—the work I now love waking up to every morning. I couldn’t see that possibility when I was fighting to get back to the river.

Looking Back

I can now see something else I couldn’t see then. That gorgeous place and that perfect job had become a container. It was a beautiful container. It had given me room to learn and lead and become. But eventually, even something wonderful can become too small for who we are becoming next. Leaving didn’t erase what that season gave me. I carried it with me. The leadership lessons came with me. My confidence came with me. The experience of building and leading a team came with me. The people who had shaped me came with me. Even the woman I had become there came with me. I had confused leaving the place with losing what the place had given me. They weren’t the same thing.

Perhaps that’s worth remembering when we find ourselves in a season of change. We tend to evaluate change by what we can see immediately: what we’re losing, what is ending, what will no longer be familiar. We can’t yet see what the ending is making possible. Sometimes we don’t need to run from the old season or convince ourselves it wasn’t as wonderful as we remember. We can simply say: That was beautiful, that mattered and it is over. There is grief in that. But there can also be gratitude. And eventually, possibility.

Beyond the Edges

I would never have chosen to leave that little slice of heaven when I did. I fought hard to stay emotionally attached to a season that had already ended. Now I understand that leaving wasn’t the end of the story. It was the first step into the next one. Maybe that’s what seasons of change ask of us—not that we know exactly where we’re going, not that we stop loving what we’re leaving, and certainly not that we pretend change isn’t painful. Maybe they simply ask us to loosen our grip enough to discover what might be possible beyond the edges of the life we’ve already known.