Chattanooga.

It took 15 years and it nearly didn’t happen.

I was unpacking boxes into my new office the other day. I found a journal from 15 years ago. It was a chance encounter with my former self. Buried in a mountain of notebooks. I was flipping through and saw the word: Chattanooga. I had just visited the city for a day trip with my family. I gushed about it. I wrote about how leaving this place felt like leaving home. Then I saw the dream I put into place years ago. “I am going to live here!”

It took 15 years and it nearly didn’t happen.

Every day, I drive down a winding road from the gorgeous plateau where I live. I look for the landmark: a giant boulderjust off the right side of the road. Beyond it is a view I never want to take for granted. The sun is low and casting an aqua-magenta hue over the valley. The trees are coming back to life right now. All sorts of shades of green. Full of contrast and dancing with life. The Tennessee River snakes in and out of my view. If there’s no oncoming traffic, and I slow down enough, I can turn my head left and upwards to take in a waterfall that must be over a hundred and fifty feet tall. It’shidden in the trees and gushing from the recent rain.

And then the city comes into view. Downtown Chattanooga. The Scenic City. Plateaus that we call “mountains” everywhere you turn to look. The buildings have personality and character. A mix of history, renovation, and new. This is a place where most people are here because they want to be. Because it imprinted their souls and the feeling never faded.

But dreams don’t follow straight paths. Mine took detours through fear, practicality and catastrophe before finding its way home.

My wife and I were sitting at my makeshift desk a year ago. Chattanooga was our dream, but our six sons were our reality. We’ve been parenting since we were teenagers. Making decisions through the filter of our responsibility. Did we really want to disrupt the kids?

We had almost made the move twice before. Once in 2017. We found a house at the top of a hill in North Shore. It was big enough for our then family of six. We could afford it. I could ride a bike down the hill to my future office. I could almost taste it. But we bought a house in the Atlanta suburbs instead. A beautiful house with a two-story balcony in the front. Cul-de-sac. The whole deal. Our kids settled in and we decided this would be forever. This was safe. It was a good idea. I let my dream go.

Then, in 2020, the world shut down. My business was failing. We had to sell our safe, forever home or face losing it. We were going to have to go somewhere. Why not Chattanooga? The dream flickered back to life, then quickly dimmed again. We tried to find places. Too expensive. Wrong neighborhood. Too far from town. We settled. Rented a smaller house close by. I hated it but pretended it was a blessing.

I was slowly giving up on my business. Giving up on my dreams. Struggling to make anything work. I pretended to have it together all day. I tossed in my bed all night. Wrenched by stress dreams about waiting tables and forgetting orders or trying to brake and being unable to.

I avoided driving by my old house. The two-story balcony at the end of the cul-de-sac towered over me. It taunted me like a monument of my inadequacy.

But I kept going. My business partner spoke confidence back into me. My wife reminded me that we’ve overcome worse. I caught some lucky breaks. Picked up some customers. Started growing the business again.

My family spent over two years in that house. Putting up with a bathtub that leaked into the kitchen. Fighting off mildew that kept regrowing in the boys’ bathroom. My wife and I learned toughness again. Toughness like we had when we were teen parents out to prove to the world that we had what it takes.

The time came to make another move. We’d had enough of this place and we were back on our feet.

Chattanooga came back into view.

This time felt different. The fear of regret outweighed the fear of change. Choosing to move meant trading comfort for potential. It meant uprooting our kids. Putting them in new schools. Living in a place we had only visited. For me, the decision felt like now or never. We were going to do this, or I was going to give up on the dream. I did not want to desire something that was not going to happen. Too much discontent in that. I was ready to let it go. Move on.

Thankfully, we decided to give it a year. We would see how it goes. We could always go back if it wasn’t what we hoped.

We signed the lease and then headed up to visit the house. Show the kids. There was a lot of uncertainty for them. But my wife and I felt settled. This place felt like home to us long before it was.

I decided to take surface streets through the city on our way out of town that day. We crossed the Market Street bridge. The city was showing off. Golden hour. River flowing beneath us. People playing in the park. I broke down crying. It was the last time I’d be leaving this city to head to a house that wasn’t here.

That moment on the bridge connected to the twenty-five year old in that journal from fifteen years ago.

I think about that feeling every day I drive down the “mountain” to work. I think about the notebook where I first planted this dream. I think about it every time I run “The Brow” looking at the city. Every time I head into Prentice Cooper. Every time I take my wife on a date in the city. Every time we get an email from a teacher telling us how much they enjoy teaching our kids. Every sporting event. Every weekend where we don’t have to look too far for something to do. I can go on.

The road to Chattanooga wasn’t just about a place. It was about perseverance. About patience and not letting go. Pushing back against fear and finding the courage to leap when the moment came.

I am so grateful.