Big changes coming...

Today, after a night of crazy weird dreams, I woke up with a feeling something was very wrong. Two hours later I came to the conclusion that indeed something was wrong. To be specific, my life.

Hi, I’m Martyna, you might know me as a 27-year-old widow. Usually, I try to talk about how we all should get outside and live our lives to the fullest but today I have a question…

Who the hell let me move to a small town in Virginia, and quit my well-paying job so I could open a bookstore in one of the most conservative counties in the country?

I mean, let’s start with the fact when I want something, I get it. People could've talked to me for hours about how they thought it wasn’t a good idea and I’d convince them (and myself) that my plan was totally reasonable and the best thing I could do for myself in that moment. Damn, I’m pretty sure some people did try to tell me that it could be a mistake. But I didn’t listen. And while usually I’d blame my stubbornness, this time it’s only part of the problem.

Last year when Andrew died, my options were very limited. I had FIVE pets, no money, and I was too deep in my grief to think clearly. I thought moving to be closer to his parents was a good idea. I also didn’t really have an option to stay in the town I loved because I couldn’t afford it. Plus Andrew's best friend lived where I was moving, so I knew my social life was wherever he was.

But Kevin moved out to Boulder, CO claiming Warrenton, VA was too small and he wanted something more. I know, how dare he?! I didn’t agree with him at that time. I liked the small-town feel. I liked being close to Andrew’s parents. I wasn’t looking to go out that much anyway.

Yet here we are, a year and three months after Andrew died.

I was never a person who liked the small-town living. I was born and raised in a small town and I absolutely hated it. I moved to DC, then to London, and back to DC. Not even once I thought or said “I hate living in the city”. I loved it. Everything about it. The restaurants, the architecture, and even the crowds. The only reason why I moved to Virginia was Andrew. I complained about it for the first year or two but finally, we settled in and I loved our life. And then I lost it. I lost him.

Because of our pets, I knew I couldn’t just move back to Europe. I needed help with taking care of them. I couldn’t move them long distance. And again, I couldn’t afford to live close to DC. So somehow I ended up in Andrew’s hometown. The one he hated and told me he’d never move back here. And for the first year, it was good. Great even. But now, it feels extremely limiting and suffocating.

There are barely any people my age here. The dating scene is non-existent unless you’re into rednecks and guys who still live with their parents. The other local small business owners hate me. Even takeout around here sucks.

I know my choices made sense last year. I did everything I had to do to survive losing Andrew. And in a way being here really helped me to heal. Well, as much as you can ever heal from losing a husband at the age of 26. But this year… I don’t want to only survive. I want to live the life of a regular 27-year-old and I don’t think I can do this here. But how do I do it with a mortgage, a brand new bookstore lease, and five pets?

I have absolutely no idea. But as usual, I’ll figure it out. I always do. Stay tuned.