hello, from inside the boggle

Stardate 🖖🏼 08. 18. 2025.
That’s when this next chapter began.

Most people move with a truck full of belongings. For Mike and me, it’s been different. Twice now, we’ve sold almost everything—furniture, housewares, electronics—and kept only the essentials. The first time, buyers wanted our home furnished. The second, it was intentional, as we knew our stay was temporary. Letting go made sense. And honestly, it felt good. Freeing, even. It was meditative in a way, a practice in non-attachment, and surprisingly liberating to let go of what I thought I needed and simply focus on what truly matters. Donating, giving, selling—it all carried its own kind of purpose.

This time, we moved back “home” with nothing but personal belongings. I landed in Abbotsford at 2pm with a carry-on and a suitcase, greeted by a beaming Jason (our oldest son), and by 5pm I stepped into a house I hadn’t even seen before—blessed by its quiet location. This is the second time Mike and I have done something like this, the first being Houston. Within a week, I received a wonderful job offer—something steady to anchor us, a reminder that life here was waiting for us, and the gift of extra space to settle in before stepping fully into this new chapter.

Meanwhile, Mike and Aiden made their way north by road. What was supposed to be a seven-day journey turned into five, as they adjusted their route along the way. They cut through New Mexico along the famous Route 66, marveled at the Grand Canyon, spent a few days exploring Las Vegas, and experienced The Mojave Desert stretched out before them as they drove toward the Pacific Northwest, finally crossing into Abbotsford. It was a different kind of adventure—slower, reflective, and filled with father-son moments! Having them safely home after the long journey eased so much of my anxiety—I could finally exhale, knowing that the family was together and the chaos of travel was behind us.

These first three weeks have been a blur: sourcing furniture and houseware, stocking a kitchen from scratch, registering and preparing for schools, and handling all the practicalities of life like bank accounts, driver’s licenses, insurances, and other types of paperwork. I’ve tried to be intentional in preparing life for that “normalcy” again, though I haven’t had the space to fully process it all—I just know it’s been really good.

Meanwhile, my dogs were on their own adventure. We worked with Miki and Michael at PetRelocation, who coordinated everything from pick-up at their boarding facility in Houston to driving them up to Bellingham. There, they were carefully escorted across the border and delivered straight to my door. Daily texts, photos, and updates kept me smiling through the chaos—and even helped with administering medication to Maggi. My golden doodles are finally home—one of them, Starr, an adopted Texan, has officially become an official Canadian.

And yet, even with all of that, I haven’t fully digested the whirlwind of selling our Texas property. long story short, it came down to the wire—only six days before I flew to Abbotsford did we finally get the notice that our house was firmly sold and the funds would actually land in our account. Up until then, it felt like we were hanging in limbo. There were delays, unsettling breaches of contract, and conversations that hinted at far bigger problems than we could have anticipated on our buyer’s end—not to mention the anxiety over how these hiccups might ripple into our plans for the property we had lined up in Chilliwack.

One of the hardest parts was the timing of funds. Before Starr and Maggi could even begin their journey, we had to cover vet appointments, paperwork, grooming, and transportation. On top of that were the everyday bills that don’t pause just because life is in limbo. With most of our resources tied up in the house sale, it wasn’t just about logistics anymore—it was the weight of obligations pressing in while we waited for answers. Every deadline, every expense, every unknown felt amplified, and it took everything in us to keep moving forward without knowing when—or if—the ground beneath us would steady.

For my Canadian friends reading this, selling a house in the U.S. can feel very different. The process doesn’t wrap up as neatly as it often does here. Even with contracts in place, you can still face last-minute surprises, delayed payments, or breaches that leave you wondering if the sale will actually close—all while sitting in escrow.

Not knowing whether or not the house was truly sold made it nearly impossible to plan a big move across the border. We ended up selling or donating most of the big items and kept only our mattresses and personal belongings until the very last minute. We were lucky to find people along the way who helped us, which was a blessing. But for those last weeks, we were practically squatters in our own home—camped out in the middle of a half-empty house, waiting for answers.

What made it harder is that we had planned everything so carefully. We started the process back in February, thinking we’d be back in Canada by June. The idea was to give ourselves two months to settle in before school started. But that didn’t happen. Instead, everything stretched out, timelines shifted, and we were still in motion right up until the very last moment.

There’s more to the story—maybe one day I’ll share it in full—but for now I’ll just say this: it was a high-anxiety ride that tested every ounce of our trust in the process. Looking back, I’m simply grateful we didn’t go into it already burnt out, because it demanded everything we had.

We haven’t seen our eldest in over a year—he moved back to Canada first to start university—so reconnecting with him and seeing how much he’s grown has been amazing. And with our youngest, well, moving and transitions are never easy, but I’m thankful we’re back somewhere that feels a little familiar for him.

It was only just a few days ago where we finally finished gathering most of the ingredients we needed for a functional kitchen again. We still don’t have a bed to sleep on but we’ve upgraded (thank goodness) from a blow-up mattress to a mattress on the floor. We have a dining table, but no chairs until October. I did manage to score a beautiful couch on my third day here—one of those lucky finds that makes you feel at home faster. Everything else has been a mix of stumbling across wonderful deals and intentionally sourcing what serves a purpose. And while setting up the kitchen yesterday, it hit me: I’ve lived in six different kitchens now, four of them my own. Somehow, this one feels like the most mature kitchen I’ve ever created. I don’t know why it came together that way, but it did. And I’m grateful.

Along the way, we’ve met the most wonderful people and rekindled friendships that have brought warmth back into our lives. There’s so much to decompress, so much to digest, so much to look forward to. And yet, part of me feels anxious—like I’m moving too fast when all I want to do is sit: just to breathe, let everything settle around me, and give myself a moment to feel grounded again.

And of course, because life doesn’t pause—it was also the first week of school for both kids. Which means this mama has meal prepping on her mind now too. One more layer of routine slowly taking shape, even as everything else is still settling.

I had every intention of filming things as they unfolded, trying to turn it all into content along the way. But realistically, I have to commend those who do this full-time—how do they manage it?! I just can’t. Especially when survival mode is activated. What we’ve realized, though, is that this process is enjoyable in its own way. I look at it more as a time capsule for myself: a fun hobby that pushes us out of our boundaries and our own minds, and it allows us to share parts of ourselves with with the world we wouldn’t otherwise.

Even though Mike has lived in Chilliwack for most of his life—me since 2005, minus a three-year stretch away—coming back now feels different. Everything requires learning the ropes again: the city has developed, routines have shifted, and even things like garbage and recycling systems have changed. It’s a new learning curve, and it adds its own layer to this whirlwind of settling back in.

Being in this whirlwind has made me come to understand that I’m living in what I now think of as a “boggle.” It’s that space where life just happens—fast, messy, and beyond full control. I’ve learned that in these moments, all I can do is sit with it, breathe, and let it move through me. This is where I am right now—inside the boggle, learning to stay present, to notice, and to feel each moment as it comes.

Through it all—the moves, the chaos, the boggles, the little victories and lessons—I’ve come to see the difference between home and nest. Home is something we carry—it’s the love we share, the relationships that anchor us, and the sense of belonging that follows wherever life takes us. A nest, on the other hand, is the grounding, tangible space where we can rest, settle, and let the small routines of life unfold. In this moment, Mike and I are grateful for both: for the home we carry inside us, and for the nest that lets us breathe, slow down, and simply be.

Thank you, Dear Universe ♥️

— mike & Theresa

If you want to follow our journey from the U.S. to Canada on Instagram, check out the posts below:
Post 1: [USA → Canada Part 1]
Post 2: [USA → Canada Part 2]

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Highlights from starr’s & Maggi’s adventure: