I am beginning a new chapter in my life. It's been a long time in coming and yet it seems to be coming so fast that I can't keep up. I am excited, nervous, frightened, overwhelmed and sad all at the same time. I am moving.

I am leaving behind the snow and sleet and freezing rain of Maine, for the heat of southwest. I am leaving the ocean for the sand. I've thought about this move for many years. The harsh New England winters wreak havoc with my fibromyalgia. But there has always been a reason to stay: a friend or relative in need, a job worth keeping, a sense of community I was reluctant to leave behind. But sometime last year, about two years after the death of a beloved family member who died suddenly and too young, I realized there is always a reason to not make a change. There is always a friend or relative in need, or something worth keeping, or something that is hard to leave behind.

But life is short, sometimes surprisingly too short. And so, if not now, when? Thus I made a decision to leave behind people and things I love, in pursuit of a life of less pain, less discomfort, more energy. I sold my Maine beach house earlier this month and am having a new house built in the desert. I was able to buy more for less in the Southwest, trading a 3200 sq foot lot for a half acre. The new house will be more forgiving of my limitations with just a single story and many accessiblity features.

But this move is about more than just climate and house features. As much as I love the ocean, I am drawn to the Southwest, with its large, expansive sky and and its sense of openess. I am grateful to shed the homogeneity of Maine for the true multi-culturalism and diversity of my new home. And despite my physical limitations, my soul craves adventure. I have lived all my life in New England. I've seen everything there is to see. Done everything there is to do. There is nothing new for me here. I am looking forward to new surroundings, new activities, new adventures.

And therein lies the rub. My excitement for newness is tempered by my fear of failure. I worry that I'm too physically limited to explore my new geography. That I am too sick to venture forth and make new friends, forge new relationships, build a new sense of community. All of those things tap into my Achilles Heel: energy. My illness carries with it an overwhelming sense of fatigue, and I worry that it will be my downfall. But then, every change is fraught with risk. If it weren't, there would be no excitement, no newness, no adventure.

I am sad too about some of the relationships I am leaving behind. A very dear friend has been fighting ovarian cancer for almost 4 years. She makes small progress with each brand of chemo they try, only to find that the cancer adapts. We don't talk about how long she has. Nobody knows. It all depends on how her cancer responds to the next round of chemo. And the round after that. She's in pain now. For a long time she wasn't. But she's still living. Some day, we don't know when, the balance of power will shift and she will spend her days dying. But not yet. And with any luck, her oncologists will be able to manage her cancer for many years to come. But I leave knowing that I may not see her alive again. We have plans of course. She's coming out to visit me when my new house is finished. I'm going to feed her authentic Hatch chiles and if she's able to stay long enough, maybe we'll take a trip to Mexico together. But neither of us know whether these are realistic plans, or whether making plans is just a way for us to cope with saying goodbye.

And then there is my mother, who just turned 77 this month. My relationship with her was always difficult. For many years we lived within 100 miles of each other and rarely spoke. And its only now that we've been able to find some common ground that I am moving 2500 miles away.

So there is always a reason to stay. A reason to maintain the status quo. To avoid change, and risk. This change I am making leaves many good things behind. Friends, family, community. The ocean. Lobster. But there is hope on the other end. Hope of a life less painful and less isolated by long, cold winters. Hope of better health, more accessibility, hope of adventure. And the hope that if I can succeed in making this new land my home, if i can make friends and create a sense of community, that in the long run change will make my life better than the status quo ever could.