Moving can look like freedom while it quietly tests a marriage. When my wife accepted a position far from home, we followed a hope that change might heal what was fragile. We landed on Hawaii, then circled back to New York with our three kids, carrying lessons about love, work, and timing that no roadmap ever shows.
From search plans to a life in motion
By the fall of 2020, my wife wanted to serve an Indigenous community, because that work matched her values and skills. She explored Alaska and the Four Corners—Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah—while the pandemic worsened the need for doctors. We had already moved often, and each of our three kids had been born in different states.
We had met in Southern California, then spent years along the East Coast, building routines that felt sturdy. Still, service kept calling her, while writing kept me flexible. The plan looked simple on paper, yet the choice was heavy. It asked us to balance purpose, family, and place, all at once.
When the hospital offer came, we felt joy and doubt at the same time. We had married in 2008 on the islands, so the destination felt meaningful. However, we had just bought a four-bedroom home in Albany with an indoor pool. The timing looked perfect, yet our relationship already felt unsteady.
Why Hawaii felt hopeful while our bond felt thin
I chose to stay in New York first, because space sometimes brings clarity. Freelance work allowed it, yet the separation hurt. I watched our youngest, only four, wave through airport glass. The car ride home was quiet, and grief sat beside me like a heavy coat I couldn’t take off.
A few months later, I visited. I toured the coast, then reached their rental in Honokaa, perched on a 1,000-foot cliff above the ocean. The view felt endless, while the distance between us felt close and strange. I was proud of what she had built, yet I stood on the edge of it.
We met again in California for a family trip, then the kids and I flew back to Albany for summer. At July’s end, the four of us returned to the island. I stayed the school year in the ohana, a small apartment over the garage. We were near, yet not together, and that defined us.
A family stretched across seasons, choices, and the Pacific
Daily life softened many hard edges. Sunshine, beaches, hammocks, and rainbows stitched small peace into our routines. We shared fruit that tasted like sunlight, while coquí frogs sang at night. The lifestyle felt bright and costly at once, and the best part was simple time with the kids, because nothing replaces presence.
Still, our gray zone persisted. We were kind, yet careful. Close, yet not fully aligned. We handled school runs and bills, while giving each other space that sometimes helped and sometimes hurt. Neither of us wanted conflict, and both of us wanted stability. That mix kept us moving, while big decisions waited.
The back-and-forth wore us down, both emotionally and financially. So we acted. At the end of 2023, we sold our upstate house. I committed to Hawaii, renting a room near their new place in Waikoloa. The walk was short, which gave us connection, while separate doors gave us breathable independence.
Committing to Hawaii and the turn no one expected
Six months later, everything shifted. The hospital role ended, and with it our careful balance. Work had pulled us across the ocean; work now pulled us back. We packed quickly, while the kids asked steady questions. We answered honestly, because trust grows when change is named.
We returned to New York. At first we considered Albany, where we had lived eight years and where routines felt familiar. Instead, we settled in her hometown on Long Island. The adjustment was real. Weather changed, prices changed, and culture shifted fast. The calendar stayed busy, while our hearts took time.
We also faced the home front, because logistics matter. Could we live under one roof in peace, or try nesting so the kids stayed in place while we rotated? We tested options, while remembering what did and didn’t work. We spoke more plainly, because clarity feels like kindness when families are reshaping.
Undoing a household while protecting what still holds
Today, we live apart and use mediation to draft a separation agreement. Paperwork sounds cold, yet it protects fairness when feelings run hot. I’m looking for a job, a car, and a home near the kids, because proximity lowers friction, while steady routines help everyone sleep better and worry less.
I keep thinking about the years we shared, because perspective softens regret. Couples coaching gave us language we lacked, so we argued less and listened more. We still use those tools, since co-parenting requires them daily. Respect can outlast romance, while teamwork keeps schedules, homework, and bedtime moving forward.
Do I miss our Albany house? Yes. Do I regret trying? No. We learned what distance can teach, while Hawaii gave us time we would not trade. We could not fix everything, yet we found what still works : honesty with the kids, calm plans, and a future drawn one careful step at a time.
A closing note on what stays when everything moves
Pride coexists with loss, and that mix now guides me. I stayed true to my gut, even when tears came, and I’m grateful for that. We crossed oceans for purpose, then came back for stability. We kept the kids at the center, while we rebuilt. That choice remains the clearest thing we have.