Departure and Arrival

There’s a peculiar kind of freedom that comes with boarding a one-way flight, knowing you’re leaving behind everything familiar for something uncertain but necessary. That’s how my new chapter began: a plane ride out of California, landing in Cincinnati, Ohio, the Queen City along the Ohio River. I’d visited Cincinnati before—family ties had brought me here intermittently—but this time was different. This was permanent. Or at least, that was the hope.

I arrived exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tired that settles in after years of instability. Not long before, I’d taken a memorable trip with my sister and her husband to Gatlinburg, Tennessee—those misty Smoky Mountains, and the simple joy of being together away from everyday pressures. When we returned to Cincinnati, my sister turned to me with a question that changed everything: Would I like her to put in an application for me at a senior apartment building supported by several local churches? Affordable housing, faith-rooted, a place designed for people like me starting over later in life. I said yes without hesitation.

A month later, I’d been sitting in my psychologist’s office when the call came. The manager of the head building informed me that a unit was ready. My heart leaped—finally, a real chance at stability. I spent Thanksgiving at my sister’s home in California, surrounded by family warmth, then the very next day I was on a plane back to Cincinnati, heading toward what I hoped would be my new home.

We went straight to the manager’s office to fill out paperwork. Background checks, references from previous landlords, calls to verify everything—it all seemed routine. My sister, brother-in-law, and I waited. And waited. Two weeks passed with no word. When we finally followed up, the manager casually mentioned a two-year waiting list. My stomach dropped. There was nothing waiting for me back in California—no safety net, no fallback plan. The uncertainty felt crushing.

But my sister? She’s not one to back down from unfairness. She’d been quietly donating cakes and cookies to the bingo nights at the apartments for years, building quiet goodwill in the community. When she learned what was happening, she didn’t hesitate. She spoke directly to the general property manager, questioning why certain applicants from out of state (like me) were being overlooked or stalled while others moved forward. The conversation wasn’t confrontational in a loud way, but it was firm. Bullies, she said, don’t get to win—not on her watch.

Suddenly, things shifted. I was called back in, this time with my brother-in-law by my side. A self-confident property manager and a noticeably unsteady general manager both joined us in the room. Within moments, I was approved and handed the keys to an apartment. It wasn’t magic; it was persistence, family advocacy, and perhaps a little divine timing in a place built on church foundations.

That first night in my new apartment, I woke up in the middle of the night, heart pounding with something I hadn’t felt in years: pure, overwhelming joy. I couldn’t believe it was real. The place was pristine, freshly remodeled—clean lines, bright windows, a quiet that felt like peace instead of emptiness. After so many years of transience, of hoping and being disappointed, I had finally arrived somewhere that was mine.

A few weeks later, the assistant manager quietly shared that the manager had been fired. I didn’t ask for details; I didn’t need them. What mattered was the outcome.

Seven years have passed since that day. In that time, the building has seen seven different managers—turnover that speaks volumes about the challenges behind the scenes in places like this. But I’m still here. The apartment is still home. The view from my window, the routines I’ve built, the neighbors who’ve become familiar faces—they all remind me that survival isn’t just about enduring; it’s about claiming space and refusing to be erased.

Looking back, that one-way ticket wasn’t just a departure from California. It was an arrival into resilience. Into the joy that comes after the fight. Into a life where, against the odds, I not only survived but thrived.

Sometimes the greatest adventures aren’t the dramatic leaps—they’re the quiet persistence that carries you across the finish line. And when you finally cross it, the joy is profound.

Here’s to new chapters, to family who fight for you, and to the unexpected grace found in places built by faith and community.

I’m grateful every single day.