In about a month, I shall once again call Indianapolis home. Emotions are high during this season of transition. If I’m honest: I’m scared.

When I moved to Colorado, I didn’t think the change of scenery would simply fix everything (although a girl can hope!). I knew that the physical separation would give me some mental space, as well. Hopefully I could use that to spur on healing. Truthfully, I hoped the time in Colorado might last forever, but I always had a sense that God would call us back to the Midwest at some point. That inkling was one I avoided; the thought of moving back to Indiana terrified me.

Words alone can’t change what I will and will not encounter once I move to Indiana, but they are a helpful way to process this change. That’s why I’m writing this “letter.”

Dear Indy (and the Hoosiers I love),

I treasure Indianapolis! I am excited to return. At the same time, I’ve never existed there as a healthy version of myself. That means that every place and memory is tainted to some degree—restaurants, parks, friend’s homes, and even church.

While I do believe God is calling me to reclaim what is a bit tarnished, that doesn’t make this change easy.

While I do believe God is calling me to reclaim what is a bit tarnished, that doesn’t make this change easy. Sometimes, I toss and turn with fear that I will regress into the person I was when I lived in Indy… like some too-small jacket, the past will envelop me and zip up to the neck before I can catch my breath.

I’ve spent the last two years trying to figure out who Hannah is (among other things). Some days, I still feel lost. But on the whole, I am starting to feel comfortable in this skin—this body. The thing I want you to know is that I’m not who I was two years ago. I don’t appear emaciated, I laugh a lot more, and I am a devoted mom to my dog Juniper. I like to do art I’m not good at, sit outside in the quiet, and eat ice cream. I don’t like hearing diet talk and I prefer to be home before dark. I’m more gentle with myself, but I fear that I’ve gone soft; so sometimes, I am self-conscious around friends. Sometimes I question why my faith hasn’t grown deeper than it has or how the body I have is good or when I will finally feel safe. I don’t love running like I used to—I love it better, in a more authentic and balanced way. I still sing and read and write, but I am more likely to share those things than I was in the past. I have changed.

You have changed too. The city won’t look like it did during the pandemic. And the friends I have in Indy: Your lives haven’t paused on my account; you’ve been growing too.

I can’t wait to embrace the new. Can you please offer the same grace to me? I am the same person, but not the same composition of her. I don’t quite know how I will reintegrate, but I know that those I love are trustworthy now as you were in the past. You’ve walked with me through very dark descents and dead-ends. My hope is I can give but a bit of myself back to you, in gratitude for that support. I want to love you all the way you so selflessly loved me when I could hardly reciprocate a thing. All the prayers, cards, friendship, and hospitality mean more than I can express.

In truth, many parts of my past still embarrass me and I wish I could erase them from your memory as well as my own. But God recently reminded me that there is great beauty in the glory of redemptive healing—yours and mine. Please let me help your family, weed your garden, bring you a hug… I want to say thank you as I step back into the community that has cared for me so well.

Love,

Hannah

Ps. I’m gonna go enjoy a cathartic cry now. Thanks for reading!