“Almost heaven, West Virginia”—even if you’ve never been to the Mountain State, these words conjure a sense of nostalgia; a longing for home. Something about the swelling strings, anthemic harmonies, and turns of phrase like “I hear her voice in the mornin' hour, she calls me, the radio reminds me of my home far away” and “All my memories gather 'round her” make you hurt inside for a place you once knew but no longer have access to—or, in my case, desire to go back to a place you’ve never been before. It’s an ache to belong to a bygone era, a pining for a simplicity that may have never even existed.

I never had a desire to even visit West Virginia. Not that I didn’t want to ever come here, I just never knew enough about it. I’m a city girl. My happy place was always Rittenhouse Square on a late summer day, the Union Square farmer’s market, busy sidewalks in Brooklyn that just don’t quit. I thrive in the hustle and bustle, I get so much reading done on the subway, I appreciate a good cup of coffee served to me by a standoffish barista who will barely even make eye contact, despite a consistent $2 tip for a cup of black coffee. So: how did I end up here in the Mountain State?

This is a question I get quite often. To answer honestly, I’m not entirely sure. It happened quickly and I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. In a way, my move to West Virginia seems a bit like an arranged marriage. I did the damn thing, and now that it’s done, I’m falling in love. I came here looking for space, a home that could eventually be a getaway from my city life when it’s time for the world to return to “normal,” and a place to heal from a few tough years. I never expected that I’d love it so much.

To tell the story of how I physically ended up here, it’s important to know that I probably would have never ended up here if not for this whole pandemic thing. I was happy in the city, I’d moved to New York in September 2019—after nearly a decade on my own in Philadelphia—and I was beginning to settle into my life there. Then, well, you know. Pretty much as soon as COVID appeared in New York, my weak, asthmatic ass caught it. Of course, I had gotten it so early on that I didn’t even realize it until my office shut down. Nothing will make you fall out of love with a new city quicker than being trapped in a very cozy but very tiny studio apartment, only to emerge to move your car for the street sweepers. (Which were still running for some reason?) After I knew I wasn’t contagious anymore, I grabbed my most special belongings (along with a few items of questionable legality) and planned my five-hour trip back to my home in Philadelphia. Yes, it should be a 90-minute drive, and this is probably one of the most dramatic things I’ve ever done but I was afraid to transport the aforementioned items through New Jersey because a big deal was made of the National Guard being in control of the state. I wrote myself a note for my eventual return, and set off.

I thought I’d be gone for two weeks.

I’m sure that I’m not alone in feeling that the beginning of the pandemic felt a lot like the Wild West. We joked around that Philadelphia was in the midst of its own “the purge” because, in an effort to stop the spread, our city police stopped arresting people for certain minor crimes. The Citizen app was particularly memorable around this time, a lot of people hitting each other with bricks, sticks, and the occasional ski pole. You know, pretty standard Philly nonsense. It felt good to be home, I’m not saying this lightly or jokingly but if I would have stayed in Brooklyn, I probably would have killed myself. (Remember, I was fresh off a breakup and some work-related woes as well.) When it seemed like “this” was just the way the world was going to be for the foreseeable future, I made plans to see my family, who live in a sleepy suburb about 30 minutes from my home in Fishtown. I found myself spending more and more time with them, soaking up every bit of time on their back deck that I possibly could—taking in the lush greenery that surrounds their home, the quiet, the togetherness.

“You should move here,” my mom said.

“Never.” I responded. I’m not the biggest fan of the suburbs. I never do anything halfway and always knew that if I couldn’t be in a city, I’d prefer the country over the suburbs. I also knew that I’d never end up in the country.

In early spring, we tragically lost a family member. It immediately put so much else into perspective. I realized almost overnight that I’d been making so many moves in my life to accommodate a career that I’d forgotten about how important family was, and how badly I’d always wanted to have one of my own. I spent a week with my family, effectively turning their home into a co-working space between my parents, my sister, and myself. I thought back to my apartment in Brooklyn, overpriced and overhyped, thinking about how difficult it would be to cohabitate with another person, let alone start a family. I thought about how my lifestyle—long hours at work, nights training in Krav, weekends spent catching up on chores, and how the New York “rise and grind” lifestyle is little else but self-serving, and incredibly exhausting. I also thought back to dates I’d gone in in the immediate aftermath of my breakup. A hard pass all around. I also started thinking about how the mountains are the thing that refresh and energize me the most—a monumental task even pre-pandemic.

When it seemed like our office wouldn’t be going back to work in-person for quite some time, I said to myself, “fuck it. I’ll suss out all the details when it’s time. For now though, I have to get out of the city.” Philadelphia is the place I love more than any other place in the world and the fact that I was feeling so suffocated there was the most uncomfortable and alienating thing I could have ever felt. I didn’t feel “home” anymore. I was barely sleeping, I was eating like garbage, I was barely going outside in the spring and summer because the humidity paired with asthma and wearing a mask made it impossible to breathe. I couldn’t even sit on my stoop sans mask without getting yelled at. (Yes, I wear masks everywhere I go because I have to but I still have the antibodies and they’re still kickin’, it irks me that a rando would scream across the street at me for not being masked while drinking a glass of wine on my own stoop when there were two restaurants half a block away with patrons spilling over onto the sidewalks—I’m not mad at them for enjoying a meal and supporting a local business, but why get uppity with me and not them?) I developed anxiety, I began to feel like every person was seeing every other person as an enemy, as a potential spreader of a novel virus and nothing but that. I almost wonder if people will ever begin to trust each other again?

Being stuck inside a decaying 150+ year-old row home with screaming kid neighbors, no A/C, and no permanent place to call “home” anymore (I’d subleased my Brooklyn apartment and technically the Philly home had been my “it’s complicated” partner’s domain ever since I moved to New York) in a pandemic summer obviously caused me to look for greener pastures on Zillow. My requirements? Space. Mountains. Good internet. A place to put outdoor furniture. Central air conditioning. A nice kitchen. Not something that exists within a few hours of Philadelphia.

I set my sights on Colorado and began the mortgage process with a home I hadn’t even visited but knew I’d love—it literally had the Sangre de Crisos in its backyard—imagine waking up to a 14er every morning? I happily scheduled a trip to visit it, but my trip never happened because we had another death in the family. And then, we had to put our dog down. It was a long couple of weeks, and it taught me that as badly as I wanted to be in the mountains, I needed to be closer to home. Preferably within a drive’s distance that’s reasonable to be completed in one day.

I started looking at mountain homes on the east coast. The Appalachians aren’t nearly as grand as the rockies, but they’re still mountains, and they’re close to home. I made a five-hour-long-drive circumference around Philadelphia and hit Zillow even harder. The Poconos were a hard pass, I’m just not a “Pocono” person. The Catskills are nice and super affordable, but ultimately not for me either. I love Tennessee but at the time, it seemed a little too far, and while I would have loved to be in Asheville, I was also aware that the office could call me back to New York at any time and if I blew my entire budget on an overpriced home in newly-trendy Asheville, I’d have to live in a punk house in Queens or something equally as bad. Back to the drawing board!

“Why not West Virginia?” My father asked.

“What’s there?” I replied.

“Nothing.” He answered.

Honestly, just what I needed.

I didn’t really know where to begin so I cast a gigantic Zillow net over the nearly the entire state—leaving out the southern part—and decided to base my search on what was close to hiking. Little did I know that the whole state is good for hiking. Not finding much, I expanded my search to the Southern part and saw a home I immediately fell in love with. (I know you’re not supposed to do that, but it ultimately did make me be a lot more aggressive in the negotiating and closing process, which worked out nicely—more on that later in this series though.) Needing some reflection, a distraction, and a return to my old, impulsive ways for a moment, I reached out to the realtor. When he said that the house was still available, I booked a hotel and headed down a few days later.

My drive to West Virginia from Philadelphia was, shall we say, very not fun? It was rainy, and the only time I’d driven my car outside of a city in recent memory had been to shuttle myself my belongings back and forth from Brooklyn to Philadelphia—and I don’t think the Jersey Turnpike counts as a “rural” ride. The winding mountain roads are unkind in torrential downpours, but I had a tight schedule to keep. Through the more northern part of the state, there was a big chunk of time that I was without any cell service, meaning that I could either listen to the radio, or I could talk to myself. (Damn you, streaming services.) I decided that I should talk to myself. The talking quickly turned into pleading with God to please show me where I need to be. Not just physically, but in my career, in my relationships—where I need to be spiritually, mentally, and then of course, physically. After wrestling with my higher power for an hour, the clouds cleared and I saw the Mountain state for the beautiful place it is: dripping in dew, shrouded in ethereal fog, lush, rolling mountains cascading as far as the eye can see. I felt at peace. In this place I’d never been before, I felt home. Home! Something that I felt had eluded me for so long.

I spent my time checking out some of the local sights. I had my breath taken away at the New River Gorge Bridge (where I also got over a fear of mine) and Grandview. I was in awe of everything between Charleston and Beckley, which is now the “largest” town near my home. I fell in love with everything from the misty mornings to the people. (We’ll talk more about Appalachians further along in this series.) When I went to look at the house I eventually ended up buying, I fell in love with that too. In fact, I didn’t make it past the front porch without thinking, “yeah. I’m putting an offer in on this one.”

It took a few hours for me to know that Appalachia would be the home that I needed at this time in my life. I’m an adaptable person and have always found a way to make any place my home, but it’s always come along with an innate sense of transience. Something about West Virginia makes me feel that I can really set my roots down here. Of course, there will always be some things about living in a small town that I may never get used to, but I can use these opportunities to learn so much about myself and other people.

I’m proud to call Appalachia my home, especially Southern West Virginia. It’s gritty like my hometown of Philadelphia. It’s guarded, like me. It’s simple, it’s unassuming, and it’s wildly beautiful. There’s a spirit to West Virginia that’s difficult to put my finger on, but for now, I’ll go with “resilient but tender.” Appalachians trust each other people they have to. There’s community here that’s so different than the type of community that I grew up with, and honestly it scares me, but it excites me as well. Mountaineers look out for each other. It’s what I need to be surrounded by to heal. I’m seeing a lot of myself and who I want to be in Appalachia. Wild at heart, genuine of soul. The first step to finding that part of myself? Being ja little (okay, a lot) impulsive and putting in an offer on the house, of course. But that’s a story for next time.

xo, e.m.