A Year of Breathing

 This Is What Happens When You Stop White-Knuckling Life

I didn’t realize how shallow my breathing had been until we moved somewhere wide enough to inhale.

Almost a year ago, Erin and I packed up our life, loaded up the car, added a dog who had no idea what was happening (but assumed treats would be involved), and made the leap to Colorado. No elaborate master plan — just a deep sense that staying where we were had started to feel heavier than leaving.

I think we knew we’d made the right decision the moment we crossed into Colorado. We hadn’t unpacked a box yet. We hadn’t explored anything. But suddenly — mountains. Actual, dramatic, “how is this real” mountains. And now I get to see them almost every day. Unless the weather says no, or the clouds are feeling petty, they’re just… there. Constant. Steady. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of them.

The people surprised me too. Texans like to brand themselves as the friendly ones, but somehow Colorado beat them at their own marketing. People here are genuinely kind. And the vibes? Immaculate. You see signs like “Ban Cars,” “No Kings,” “Fight Fascism,” and plenty of unapologetic political statements just… existing out in the open.

But it’s not just the signs. It’s the people behind them. The ones who show up. Who protest. Who are willing to make others uncomfortable enough to pause and take a second look — sometimes outward, sometimes inward. People love to say you can’t change minds with protests or signs or by speaking up. I’m living proof that you can. Change doesn’t always happen in the moment — it happens later, quietly, when something someone said or stood for finally lands.

Erin changed here — softened, in the best way. Happier. More relaxed. And together we made a quiet promise when we moved: to actually explore. When we have a full day with nothing planned, we pick a road we’ve never driven and just go. No agenda. No rush. We usually take a different road back, and somehow the scenery still manages to outdo itself. Texas was too hot for that most of the time. Here, it feels like the land itself is saying, Hey… come look at this.

Oliver, unsurprisingly, adapted faster than either of us. New sidewalks, new smells, new adventures — he took to Denver like a fish to water. As long as snacks are involved, he is deeply committed to the process.

Breathing easier has been literal — the air really does feel cleaner — but it’s also metaphorical. I didn’t realize how much energy I was spending just bracing. Explaining. Enduring. Here, my shoulders sit lower. My nervous system isn’t constantly on alert. I don’t even fully know what all was draining me before — I just know I’m not carrying it anymore.

This move wasn’t about running away. It was about choosing ourselves. Choosing peace. Choosing a life that doesn’t feel tight around the edges. A life where breathing isn’t something you earn after surviving, but something you’re allowed to do freely.

As we come up on a year in Denver, I keep thinking about how many people are still holding their breath without realizing it. Maybe this is your reminder to check in with yourself. To ask if there’s something — big or small — you could change that would help you breathe easier. Physically. Metaphorically. Honestly.

Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do isn’t to endure.

It’s to inhale — and choose differently