Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much of adulthood is figuring out what actually makes you happy versus what you once thought was supposed to.

Earlier this year, I (and my partner) made the conscious decision to move a little farther outside of Nashville. Not far enough to leave the city behind, but far enough that life feels noticeably different. I traded some convenience for a yard I can tend to, quieter mornings, and a lake I can walk to from my house.

At first, I wondered if I’d miss being closer to everything. Instead, I’ve found myself settling into a new rhythm. I spend more time outside. I notice what’s growing in the yard. I walk to the lake. I have more quality time with my man. Home has become somewhere I genuinely want to be, rather than simply the place I return to between everything else.

There’s a particular kind of satisfaction in tending to things. Watering something. Moving a plant. Watching a season slowly change the landscape around you. None of it is especially exciting, which might be exactly the point.

For a long time, I think I associated a full life with having things happening around me. Restaurants nearby. People nearby. Somewhere to go. Some reason to leave the house. I still love all of that, but I’m realizing that access and satisfaction aren’t necessarily the same thing.

Maybe the luxury I’m interested in now is space. Not square footage exactly, but room in the day. Room to notice things. Room to be a little bored. Room to take care of something that will look almost exactly the same tomorrow.

I haven’t become a person who wants to disappear into the country. I still want (and need) the many cities of the world to experience. I just don’t need to be in the middle of it all the time.

And lately, being a little farther away has made me feel strangely closer to my own life.