I can hardly believe it’s been almost two months since we moved into our dream beach house. In some ways, it feels like we’ve only just arrived. In other ways, it feels like we’ve lived a thousand lifetimes since crossing the threshold for the very first time.

Moving with a one-year-old is a different kind of endurance challenge and if we ever do this again (and I sincerely hope we don’t anytime soon), we are 100% hiring movers. Doing it ourselves and working during nap times, snack breaks, bedtime routines, and while trying to keep a crawling toddler from scaling furniture, felt borderline impossible. Every night, Matt and I would collapse onto whatever surface was closest and high-five each other just for surviving another day (if we had the energy).

Despite the chaos, we were riding the high of new homeownership. That is, until we left the country.

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Just two weeks after moving in, we packed our bags (again!) and headed off to the UK for a testimonial hockey game. For those who don’t know, a testimonial is a special match played in honour of a player who’s dedicated ten years to their team. This one was for Joey, a Cardiff Devil and one of Matt’s former teammates. Matt was invited to play, and for him, it was more than just lacing up his skates again, it was a homecoming and a way to really close out his career because his last season had been quashed by the pandemic.

I had never seen Matt play professionally before. We met after he retired. So watching him take the ice, suited up with his old teammates, was emotional in the best way. He also wanted Griffin to be there — to see his dad in action, even if he won’t remember it. (Luckily, we’ve got the photos and videos to prove it happened!)

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We turned the trip into a whirlwind mini-tour. We visited a dear friend of mine in the Cotswolds, soaked in the stunning countryside, and then spent a few days in London. But let me tell you — travelling internationally with a one-year-old during a heat wave is not for the faint of heart. Between the 2-hour ferry, 9.5-hour flight and a 3-hour drive to Cardiff… we were absolutely running on fumes. I swear, somewhere over the Atlantic, Griffin had a full-blown existential crisis. We all did.

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When we got home, we were exhausted. Jet-lagged. Emotionally tapped. And, of course…the moving process was still not done.

Because, surprise! While we were away, we finalized the private sale of our old house in Nanaimo. Which meant more U-Haul trips, more heavy lifting, and more of the good ol’ “just toss it in the garage and we’ll deal with it later” game plan. Our new house looked like the inside of a storage unit for weeks. There were days I couldn’t find a single pair of matching socks or a coffee mug. Still, we kept inching forward, one box at a time.

And here’s the thing no one prepares you for: moving really shines a harsh spotlight on how much stuff you own. Like, how? How did we accumulate so many things?

Matt spent most of his adult life living out of suitcases while traveling the world for hockey. He never really put down roots for long enough to gather clutter. And when I moved across the country nearly five years ago, I did a massive purge. I sold or gave away almost everything that didn’t fit in the back of my truck and I only really shipped my tools out here (because this girl could never part from her tools!). So where did all this stuff come from?

We kept finding boxes labeled with things like “cables,” “random decor,” or my personal favourite: “probably junk.” I found two crockpots. TWO. We are a family of three humans — we do not need two crockpots.

Only in the past few weeks have we started to feel a shift from surviving to settling. Little routines are forming. We’re starting to see the floor again. Griffin’s toys have found semi-permanent homes (until he relocates them). The boxes are slowly disappearing.

But even in the chaos, one feeling has stayed constant: awe.

Every single day, one of us says it: “Can you believe we live here?” Because the magic of this place? It’s not just in the view. It’s in the way it showed up for us the moment we arrived.

We got possession at 3:30 p.m. on a sunny afternoon. We pulled up, unloaded the truck just enough to find the essentials, and made a beeline to the water. That’s when we saw them: at least twenty bald eagles lining the shoreline. Perched quietly, watching us. Welcoming us. We stood there in silence, completely mesmerized.

Later that evening, after Griffin had gone to bed, Matt and I sat outside on our deck. Champagne in hand, gifted by our realtor, watching the sky begin to turn that soft golden-pink you only get near the ocean. And then I saw it. A movement in the water. Far out. Big.

“No way,” I whispered and pointed. Then Matt saw it too. Humpback whales. Breaching. Putting on a full performance. Right in front of us. Right there.

In the five years I’ve lived on Vancouver Island, I’ve only seen whales breach like that once before. And here they were, on our very first night. In our very own back yard.

As if that wasn’t enough, the sky began to shift again. What we thought at first was light pollution turned into something far more magical: the northern lights.

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Bald eagles. Breaching whales. The aurora borealis. On our first night in our new home.

It felt like nature itself was wrapping us in a warm, wild welcome. Like the universe was saying, “You’re in the right place.”

And in that moment, I felt my Dad with me.

He would’ve loved this house. This view. This feeling. He would’ve wandered around with Griffin on his hip, pointing at his favourite trees and building us our first beach fire (which he would have tended to all night). He would’ve poured us each a glass of wine and said, “Well, Katie — this is UNNNN-believable.”

I sat out on the deck long after Matt had gone to bed. Staring up at the sky. Listening to the quiet. Feeling the ache of grief and the warmth of love all at once. I miss him. I always will. But in that moment, I felt him. His energy. His joy. His pride.

He’s here. In the trees. In the waves. In the light.

This house needs work. A lot of it. We’re still living in the mess. Still trying to figure out where everything goes, how to manage renovations around toddler naps, and how to give ourselves grace on the days it all feels too big.

But this is home.

And we are exactly where we’re meant to be.

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