In 2020, we packed up our lives in Arizona and moved back to Northeast Ohio.
We had spent 13 years in Arizona, and it had given us plenty. Sunshine, desert views, opportunities, growth, and friends. But I’d had enough. Enough of the heat that never let up. Enough of the traffic and endless sprawl. Enough of feeling like the years were racing by while the seasons all blended into one.
I missed the Midwest. The same place I so desperately wanted to leave behind when I was growing up. I missed the fall leaves, winter snow, spring rain, summer baseball. The way community feels connected together here. And, more than anything, I missed family.
Choosing Family Over Geography
The real question wasn’t about weather, career, or lifestyle. It was this: How many summers did I have left with the people who mattered most?
I wanted my boys to grow up in a place that felt like family both literally and figuratively. Where a win on Sunday made the whole city feel good and where a playoff loss might hang in the air for a few days. Where grandparents could be in the stands at their games. Where they’d see their aunts, uncles, and cousins often.
I wanted dinners that didn’t require booking a flight. Visits that didn’t require weeks of planning. I wanted ordinary moments to become the fabric of their lives.
And I wanted time. Not just years, but lived time. Time that shows up in playing catch in the yard, making s’mores over a fire, sleepovers, or waiting together at the bus stop. Time that matters.
What I Came Back To
We came back in December 2020, just months before the event that reshaped our lives and communities: the pandemic.
That time reinforced my decision. Being 2,000 miles away during lockdown would have meant isolation, separation, and distance. Even though it was strange here too, it still felt different. The porch cookie drops, the check-ins, the sense that, even apart, we were together.
Since moving home, I’ve had front-row seats to moments I never would have had otherwise:
The boys having their grandparents get them off the bus.
My dad’s face on the cover of a beer can, celebrated by family and friends.
Cousins spending holidays together.
Random run-ins, like seeing my brother walking the dog down the street each night.
Dinners that don’t need planning months in advance.
And then there are the small, perfect ones: last week, just me and my dad. Beers, peanuts, nachos, and a playoff game. Nine innings that filled me with more emotion than the loss itself. Because it wasn’t about the game. It was about being there together.
I think about the first Christmas after we came back. Snow falling outside, the tree lit up, cousins tearing through wrapping paper while grandparents sat with coffee in hand. For years in Arizona, those holidays were filtered through FaceTime and phone calls. Now they’re spent in person.
The Currency of Time
More and more these days we talk about longevity. Lifespan. Healthspan. We have people like tech entrepreneur Bryan Johnson devoting millions reversing aging. But when you watch his videos, one thing feels missing: who is he spending that time with? Where are the friends, the family, the moments that make life…life?
Which brings me back to that first question: Who do we want to spend our time with?
My parents are in their seventies. The average life expectancy means I may have 10 or so more summers with them. Not decades. Summers.
That math is harder than E = mc². How do you sit in the present knowing the countdown is real? One day I won’t be able to sit at a ballgame with my dad. One day my mom won’t be bringing over her homemade cookies.
And even when families live close, they don’t always see each other. Nearly half of adults who live more than a few hours from their parents see them less than once a month. The miles can feel like mountains.
Life is a series of decisions, and this was one of the best we’ve ever made. It wasn’t about gaining convenience. If anything, it complicated things. It took away career opportunities, shifted our lifestyle, and forced a bit of a reboot. But it gave us the one thing we couldn’t get back: time.
Not just time in years, but time in summers. Time in ballgames with my dad. Time in Christmas mornings with cousins tearing through wrapping paper. Time in the ordinary moments that become extraordinary when you realize how finite they are.
We can spend our lives chasing more years, or we can spend them making the years we have count. I’ve chosen the latter.