Letting Go and Having Faith

The last week I spent in California felt surreal.

Nine days.

That’s how much notice I had between being presented with the opportunity to move to Austin, Texas, and actually doing it. Nine days to decide whether to stay in the state that shaped me or step into something completely new.

There was uncertainty. There were opportunities I was leaving behind. There were relationships, routines, and familiar landscapes that had become part of my identity. California wasn’t just where I lived — it’s where I built Wild Essence. It’s where I learned wildlife rhythms, seasonal movement, patience, and storytelling through photography.

But deep down, it felt right.

Sometimes you don’t have all the answers. Sometimes you just know. So I packed up the zoo. Sheriff and Autumn, my two bloodhounds. Rupert, my little Morkie poo. Kona, my cat. Tarzan, my African Grey who has been with me through so many chapters of my life.And Gator, my Savannah monitor who somehow makes every move feel even more adventurous.

Woodland Hills to Austin, Texas.

A car full of animals. A life condensed into boxes. No real connections in the new city. No established routine. Just faith, instinct, and a willingness to start fresh.

What made the transition even heavier was the timing. The move landed during the opening week of my new college term. I tried to keep up. I logged in from hotel rooms. I studied between packing and long drives. I told myself I could handle college-level science courses while uprooting my entire life, but it was too much.

The weight of the unexpected move, the travel, the stress, and the responsibility of relocating everything I care about made it impossible to give school the focus it deserved. I had to make the difficult decision to drop the term. That choice hurt. Education is important to me. Zoology is part of my long-term vision. But in that moment, the move had to take priority.

Driving across Arizona felt like crossing into a new chapter.

The rock formations were simple and ancient. The desert stretched endlessly. I found myself falling in love with the quiet in-between moments — the way ecosystems slowly changed as we moved east. It felt symbolic, like watching my life transition in real time.

When I arrived in Texas and went on my first birding outing, I saw a Crested Caracara.

I couldn’t believe it. I met a couple of local birders who kindly gave me a quick rundown of what I would be seeing regularly. The Northern Cardinal is as common here as a scrub jay is in California. I began noticing the difference between Turkey Vultures and Black Vultures, What is everyday here feels brand new to me and the deer...

In my first week in Texas, I may have seen more white-tailed deer than I did in fifteen years living in Los Angeles. They move through neighborhoods at dusk, stand quietly in open fields, and feel integrated into daily life. Wildlife doesn’t feel hidden here. It feels present.

The skies are wider, too.

The sunsets stretch longer. The sunrises feel softer and more expansive. Weather systems roll through dramatically, offering completely different backdrops for photography from one day to the next. Limestone hills, open prairies, misty mornings, powerful storm clouds — creatively, it feels limitless.

Then, during my first weekend in Texas, the city shut down because of a freeze.

Snow fell and Watching Sheriff and Autumn experience snow for the first time is something I will never forget. They didn’t know whether to sniff it, run through it, or simply stare at it. It was chaotic and beautiful and felt like a reset in every way.

Then two weeks after moving, I had a moment of doubt.

I received an email offering me the opportunity to volunteer at the LA Zoo — something I had applied for over a year ago. Reading that message stopped me. For a brief second, I questioned everything.

Had I left too soon?

Had I just walked away from something I had been waiting for?

But the timing told me everything I needed to know. That opportunity came after I had already stepped into this new chapter. Instead of feeling like a sign to turn back, it felt like confirmation that doors open and close for a reason.

I truly believe God has bigger plans for me. If I were meant to stay, that door would have opened sooner. Instead, I was chosen to move — to stretch, to grow, and to build something new in a place where I knew no one.

What excites me most about Texas is the space, more open land, fewer buildings dominating the skyline. Nature trails that feel tucked away. Scenic areas that feel untouched.

For someone like me, who finds peace in getting lost in nature, it feels like breathing deeper.

California built me.

Texas is expanding me.

This move has required sacrifice, faith, and letting go of control. But it also feels aligned. It feels purposeful.

I don’t know exactly what this chapter will bring.

But I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.