The Long Way West: What Leaving Ontario Taught Me About Trusting Myself

I started saying out loud that I wanted to leave Ontario in early 2022.

Not casually. Not in a “maybe someday” way. In the kind of way where once the words leave your mouth, you can’t put them back. The kind of knowing that doesn’t shout, but also doesn’t let you rest. The truth is, I knew long before that.

When I moved back to Canada in 2020 after living in the US for over a decade, I already knew that Ontario wasn’t meant to be permanent. It was a stepping stone. A pause. A place to land while the next phase of my life gathered momentum. But life has a way of filling space quickly. I got busy living. I was busy having fun and building a relationship that felt good, steady, and full of laughter. I was grateful, and life was good, but it wasn’t complete.

There were pieces missing I couldn’t ignore forever, no matter how hard I tried to distract myself with productivity, social plans, or even self-care. The reality was that the life I envisioned for myself could not exist where I was.

The apartment my partner and I shared was $2,200 a month. Utilities and internet added another $500-$600. While we made it work, the math never worked in our favor. I wanted land. I wanted space. I wanted a garden that didn’t fit in a window box. I wanted to rescue animals. I wanted to start a nonprofit that had been sitting on my heart for years. I wanted a homestead-style life that was quieter, slower, and rooted.

Ontario couldn’t hold that dream. Not financially. Not energetically. Not emotionally. Staying started to feel like suffocation. I didn’t feel connected to where we lived, and at some point, I stopped trying. There were opportunities to build relationships, to network, to expand my business locally, but I wasn’t interested. I knew that I didn’t want to grow roots somewhere I planned to leave. So I stayed disconnected by choice, and that disconnection weighed on me more than I realized.

MAKING THE DECISION TO LEAVE

I used to tell people my soul felt itchy. No matter how much I tried to soothe it, I couldn’t scratch the itch. It wasn’t burnout or boredom. It was misalignment. My body knew before my brain was ready to catch up.

Leaving felt like breathing again. The farther away I imagined myself getting from that city, the lighter my chest felt. And once I noticed that difference in my body, I couldn’t un-notice it.

Alberta, to me, represented freedom. Safety. Spaciousness. Grounding. Opportunity. Infinite potential. I could see the sky there. I could see the stars. I could imagine a life that didn’t feel like a constant uphill climb.

It wasn’t about reinvention. It was about returning to myself and to what I’ve always known I needed to feel at home in my life. The decision itself was a slow build… until it wasn’t.

By March, I started having quiet conversations with friends and mentors. By July, the truth became unavoidable: if I waited for the plan to make sense, I might never go. There would always be another reason to stay. Another responsibility. Another delay dressed up as practicality. I had a feeling that if I didn’t move now, I never would. So I made a decision that didn’t look responsible on paper. I started talking logistics. I started sketching out plans that felt a little wild and completely nonsensical, and somehow, they worked. The momentum was immediate and undeniable.

The hardest part wasn’t the move itself; it was telling my partner I was going with or without him. That conversation cracked something open between us. He loved the idea of moving, but the reality was terrifying. He’s on the neurodivergent spectrum, and change is not just uncomfortable for him; it’s overwhelming. Financially, it made no sense. Emotionally, it was destabilizing. And for a while, it became a real point of tension in our relationship. But I was done waiting. I told him the truth. I needed to go. I didn’t want to leave him, but I couldn’t stay. If he wanted to come, I wanted that as well, but if he didn’t, I would still go.

There was a lot of fear. I was afraid I was ruining something good. Afraid of failing. Afraid of getting there and realizing I’d made a mistake. Afraid of being alone. And yet, underneath all of that fear, there was certainty. 

SETTING OUT FOR A NEW START

When it was time to leave, things were still unresolved. I packed everything I could into my car, loaded up my dogs, and hit the road alone. The drive ahead was massive – roughly 3,600 kilometers and about 38 hours of active driving. I had never driven more than four hours by myself before. I didn’t know where the gas stations were. I didn’t know where the bathroom stops were. I didn’t know how tired I’d get or how I’d feel.

But I went anyway.

I made a deal with myself before I left. I could be sad until I reached a city about six hours into the trip, a place I had visited briefly as a child. Until then, I let myself feel it all. I played sad girl music. I drove past places filled with memories and chapters of a life I had lived fully. I let myself grieve what I was leaving behind. Once I crossed that invisible line, something shifted. From that point on, I decided to be present and enjoy what was ahead instead of clinging to what was behind.

Northern Ontario surprised me more than I expected. I had never driven that far north before, and the wildness of it took my breath away. Along Lake Superior, the rock formations looked like mountains rising straight out of the earth. I remember thinking, “How did I not know this existed?” Every curve in the road revealed something new. It felt expansive and humbling all at once.

The frequent stops with my dogs became grounding rituals. We walked. We breathed. We stretched. Each pause was a reminder that this could be more than a move. It was an adventure.

When it came time to drive through long stretches of flat prairie, I kept my mind company by listening to Adventures in Odyssey, a radio show from my childhood. It was nostalgic and strange and comforting in a way I didn’t expect. I also played a lot of Cam, whose music somehow matched the openness of the road.

Somewhere along the way, I met a part of myself I hadn’t expected. I discovered that I was capable of more than I gave myself credit for. I drove 12 hours each day, for a total of 15 to 16 hours on the road. I rolled with uncertainty. I figured things out as I went. And every night when I collapsed into bed, exhausted, I felt proud that I had trusted myself without backup.

ARRIVING

Crossing into Alberta was everything I imagined it would be. As soon as I saw the “Welcome to Alberta” sign, I began to cry immediately. I had been talking about this move for almost three years, and there it was, proof that I keep promises to myself now.

When I arrived in my new hometown, it was quiet. Smaller than small. No gas station. No coffee shops. A tiny café. A convenience store with unpredictable hours. Dark nights. Bright stars. I finally felt peace and safety in my body. But what surprised me most was how quickly things began to align.

I made friends almost immediately. The kind of friends who show up and mean it. My partner eventually joined me, found a job five minutes from our home, and built friendships of his own. Community unfolded in a way I wasn’t used to, with people helping because they genuinely wanted to.

Not everything was easy. Housing fell through at the last minute. We lived in uncertainty longer than planned. But even in that, I felt steadier than I had in years.

FINDING HOME

Life is now simpler. My partner and I spend more time together. We walk our dogs. We play with our pets. We tidy our small apartment and make it feel like home. Work is thriving. Our health is improving because life requires more intention here, like meal planning. There’s less opportunity for impulse runs and more opportunity for presence. My nervous system is calmer than it’s been in a long time. I used to say I wanted peace in my head, my home, and my heart. I have that here.

On New Year’s Eve, I drove an hour to pick up medicine for my dog. The sky was still pink and purple from sunrise, and the mountains rose quietly in the distance. I pulled over, looked at them, and cried the most cathartic, joyful tears.

I did the damn thing.

Sometimes I miss convenience like coffee shops, quick errands, and fast shipping. I miss my siblings. A few friends. What I don’t miss is the noise. The traffic. The constant tension. The feeling of not being safe after dark. The divisiveness. The absence of community. Every day confirms that I made the right decision.

If you’re standing on the edge of a big transition, this is what I hope you take from my story: the plan doesn’t have to be perfect for things to work out. Sometimes, being willing to break things is what allows them to fall back into place.

Destiny called.

And I answered. Happily.