I’ve always hated life transitions

At the onset of middle school, it was fear of the adolescent mosh pit. In high school, it was fear of random clarinet testing. In college, it was fear of identity: both losing and finding myself, preferably in a field with a high job placement rate.

Fresh off a thousand-mile move from Minneapolis to Bozeman, I’m reminded that even at age 31, transitions are still some of my greatest enemies.

Moves in homes or jobs jolt relationships and routines, both of which rank high among my besties. There’s nothing I like better than inside jokes and mental maps of nearby happy hour fares.

In new places, everyone is a stranger and every place is unknown. To habitualized eyes such as mine, even people who look nice and doors that look welcoming can seem mysterious—or worse, scary. Personalities and menus can threaten newcomers until actually met in person or (gasp, the inconvenience!) Googled.
But now that the boxes are nearly unpacked and the first round of Bozeman hot spots have been sampled, I’m building a menu of wise nuggets for my future self, lest she once again wallow in fear of yet another life transition:

Learn about your new home. Explore the parks, study the history books, run the trails, read the menus, talk to your neighbors. You will uncover what people love about this place, why they have stayed here for six months or 60 years. These stories will help you come to love this place and what it has meant for the strangers you now call neighbors.



Be a tourist in your own town. Take too many pictures at cliché landmarks. You will be too embarrassed to do it once you’re seasoned.

Your new town will sell ice cream. There is always ice cream. You will not need to learn how to churn it by hand.

You will miss your friends and the old familiar haunts you’ve established with them. You will miss having people laugh at your foibles; you will miss having people who know your foibles. You can never replace the history and comfort of these relationships. They are a gift. But phones will still work both ways. Use them. Meanwhile, meet new people and discover their foibles as they discover yours.

Your new town will house the perfect coffee shop. Or diner. Or some place to sit and read and write. You will find it.

Believe it or not, future self, a move is an opportunity. (You are only allowed to say this to yourself. If anyone else says this to you, you will cry.) Starting over in a new place forces attentiveness you let slide in more familiar places. In your new place you will notice the smells, the textures, the view. You will want to read local authors. You will become adventurous because it will be the only way to find the ice cream. You will surprise yourself with your courage.

Finally, nothing will be worse than the adolescent mosh pit. Those days are over.
For now, I’m starting to get used to the Bozone air. I’m even starting to feel at home in it.

I’ve stopped using my GPS—sometimes prematurely, making me literally Lost in Montana. My husband Jon and I have scaled the “M,” both pre- and post-altitude adjustment. We’ve burned through far too much cash on huckleberry smoothies at the farmers’ market. I’ve cracked open Day Hikes Around Bozeman, my first Ivan Doig and several Bozone Ambers.

On good days I remember my ZIP code.

On rough days I miss Minnesota. I miss the urban lakes and Scandinavian pastries of the Twin Cities. I miss our bike rides over the Stone Arch Bridge, strategizing our path through oblivious joggers. I miss my friends and the chance to watch their dreams and their babies grow. I miss my favorite bench overlooking the Lake Harriet Rose Garden. I miss the unabashed hallelujahs Jon sings with each taste of Izzy’s salted caramel ice cream.


But there is ice cream here. Good ice cream, in fact. We’ve only scratched the delectable surface of Wilcoxson’s—and for the record, Jon’s fast favorite is “Stuck in a Rut.” Too soon to tell for me.

There is ice cream, there are trails and there are friends, some already found and others yet to be discovered.

Discovering Bozeman as an inquisitive neighbor is far less scary than uncovering it as a fearful stranger. I dare say it is even fun.

It’s fun flipping through this very magazine’s Events Calendar and plotting our next adventures. It’s fun accessorizing the guest bathroom with unapologetically cheesy mountain décor. It’s fun being able to say, “You know, where Durston becomes Peach” and “where Main dips south.” (Of course, I’ve never said either of those things. But when the opportunity arises, I’ll be ready.)

So people of Bozeman, thanks for the trails and the ice cream. I look forward to meeting you. I’ll be the one taking too many pictures.