My husband and I dreamed of living in Florida. But when we finally moved, me and the kids hated it and it was the final straw in our relationship.
Candace Powell
I've moved a lot throughout my life — across town, down the road, and from one state to another. But one move, from Ohio to Florida, cost me my husband of nearly 11 years.
For as long as I can remember, my husband and I dreamed of living along the Florida shores, where we could find great opportunities while living within driving distance of the beach.
After multiple trips south, my husband was presented with a chance to transfer in 2017. With job relocation an increasing rarity in this economic climate, we didn't know if the opportunity would present itself again, so we took a few days to think it through.
What would I do for work? How would our kids adjust to the warmer climate year-round and the lack of immediate family nearby? And what about school and moving costs and all the things that can make a move like this feel impossible?
Despite the long list of cons and concerns, we saw this as our one shot to see if Florida life was for us and agreed that if we didn't love it, we'd return home. What was the harm in trying?
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The move itself wasn't exactly seamless. My husband's job required him to leave right away — three months before the kids and I could.
While he was off living the life we planned together, I became a single mother making dinner, helping with homework, and putting the kids to bed alone.
And, while he was working the job he moved for, I was struggling to meet all my deadlines as a writer and author while juggling parenthood by myself.
By the time we could join him, he'd already created a life for himself and seemed fully immersed in Florida culture. He'd eaten at tons of local restaurants and had already developed routines and favorite places. It felt like he'd been living his best single life without us.
In some sense, it felt too late for me to catch on before I ever stepped inside the rental he'd found. I felt as if I was trying on someone else's life only to find it didn't fit.
And I wasn't alone. While my husband worked all hours, our children struggled to adjust, crying often about home, missing family and friends, and their old lives. I did, too.
Moving to a place we didn't know felt worse than spending three months without him. I started to regret the decision to move.
One night, after a long stressful day, I told him we were moving — with or without him. After multiple arguments, we somehow came to the agreement to go home for the kids.
Three months after returning to Ohio, my husband, whom I'd been with for 14 years, packed his bags and moved out. He filed for divorce while the kids and I remained in the house that, I thought, would heal what had broken throughout the move.
In the years since, I've come to terms with the fact that the move had nothing to do with our split. It was merely the last thing our relationship could take. We weren't solid to begin with, and I relied on him to stabilize our new lives instead of finding my own way.
If I had it to do over again, I'd spend less time dreaming of a mysterious new life in a new town and spend more time fixing the foundation — our marriage.
We may have been bound to break, or maybe not if we stuck it out a little longer. I guess I'll never know, and though it's been a long road of untangling what exactly happened, I'm finally OK with that.
