Time doesn’t ask for permission. It moves, rushes, swirls like the wind, carrying us from one place to another before we’ve had time to gather our thoughts.

Nineteen years ago, Orlando faded in my rearview mirror, and Royston rose ahead. A transition wrapped in uncertainty. A new town. A different rhythm. A shift in scenery from theme parks and traffic to fields and cows, from the hum of a city to the hush of small-town streets.

The change wasn’t easy.

Leaving never is.

Starting over never is.

But then, time—always in a hurry—ushered in almost two decades of work and life, of conversations and meals, of church and prayer. A new home took shape, not just in geography but in relationships.

Life happened in the waiting. Laughter echoed in new friendships. Tears fell in seasons of grief. Joy arrived in celebrations. Lessons unfolded in unexpected ways.

Time sprinted forward, as it always does—a marathon disguised as a sprint. And we adapted. We adjusted. We kept going.

There were ball games under bright lights, voices cheering into the night. There were classroom moments, faces eager, minds stretching. There were long meals with friends, pausing between words, stories weaving across the table. There were hospital visits and graveside goodbyes, reminders of love and loss. There were quiet mornings and hurried afternoons, days that felt like a blur and nights that whispered prayers.

New books. New ideas. New stories written in the ink of everyday moments.

Time keeps moving, but so do we.

Nineteen years ago, I moved.

Today, I’m still moving—still learning, still growing, still grateful.

With hands open. With hearts willing. With faith steady.