I'm grateful for my Midwestern roots.

But I've come to a point where I have to leave comfort behind.

Hi. I’m Katie. This newsletter is a place for the woo curious to explore spirituality, culture, and humanity in an intersectional way. Here’s what I’m thinking about this week…

I lived the first eighteen years of my life in mid-Missouri, where the bridges are one way and the roads are labeled with letters. 

I grew up on PP. My friend Breanne lived five minutes away on BB. And my high school was on Highway C, a winding paved road that began next to the soybean fields bordering the Missouri river and ended in Fulton, the closest town with a stoplight.

If I close my eyes, I can still drive every curve of these roads in my mind. I feel the tickle in my stomach when PP goes into a freefall and crosses over the Middle River. I see the white, peeling paint of the Dixie church at the junction of BB and PP. And I feel the slide of the steering wheel in my hands as I navigate the long, long curve of C that led me right past Hams Prairie, population Unknown But Really, Really Small.

Missouri is full of places that are named as if they are proper towns yet lack any sort of true structure. Hams Prairie is one of these unincorporated, not-towns: there is no census data. No grocery stores. No parks. But there is always a church, and there is always a general store that acts as the nucleus of the small community.

The last time I saw it, the Hams Prairie Store had three gas pumps that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the 1970s. As you filled your tank, the numbers flipped over like an old school cash register, tallying up the total. And if you walked inside the store and took a deep breath, you’d inhale the bouquet of the boonies: cigarette smoke, motor oil, hay and the sweet scent of wild lilac bushes.

In the Age of the Internet, you can find a picture of anything. Even the exact gas pump in front of the Hams Prairie Store.

Over the years, I have ducked into the Hams Prairie Store many times to buy packs of gum, bottles of water, and, once, despite the disapproval of my friend’s mother who accompanied me, candy cigarettes. And each time, to the right of the cash register and next to the standalone ice cream freezer, I would see them: four ageless men, seated in metal folding chairs around a cardboard table.

They sat there like relics, as if their dust-covered work boots had grown roots, cracked through the tiled floor and become embedded into the bedrock below.

I would catch snippets of conversation, usually about the weather or crops, and watch the men’s hands as they gripped decks of cards or fluttered the pages of the local paper. No matter the time of day, they always looked as if they had just slid out from under a car or stepped out of a hot tractor cabin. They wore grease-stained denim and tucked plugs of chew into their cheeks. They were polite, calling women “ma’am” and men “sir.” They listened to yelling preachers on AM radio and traded their folding chair in for the pew of a church every Sunday.

I never knew their names. But I knew them all the same. They were the Midwestern mindset personified.

I do not regret growing up where I did. I spent my childhood hunting for morel mushrooms, brushing the hindquarters of cows and shelling snap peas. I learned the constellations by sitting on the darkened roof of my house, easily accessible if I could convince my little sister to let me climb out of her window. I learned how to plant a garden, ride a motorcycle and ride out a tornado because I grew up in the Midwest.

Because I am Midwestern, “y’all” rolls off of my tongue easily, an inclusive way to greet a group of people. I am respectful of the quiet power of unbridled nature, having grown up with the wildness of dogwood trees and Queen Anne’s Lace as the backdrop to my childhood. And there is a certain type of toughness that a Midwesterner exudes: we have buried loved ones and gotten up the next day to feed the cows because we understand that life does not stop, even when it is painful.

But growing up in the Heartland taught me another, more insidious lesson that has rooted itself deep within me, one that is so much a part of me that I forget that it exists. It’s a truth quietly taught by the four men at the Hams Prairie store, the endless rows of corn, and the former classmates who send their children to our old elementary school.

Underneath the gravel roads and church sanctuaries of the Midwest lies a deep-seated resistance to change. And if you do choose change? You will likely be on the receiving end of the tight-lipped Midwestern smile, one that says, “changing what is comfortable is unwise.”

In my mid-20s, I moved to one of the two major metropolitan areas in the state, St. Louis. I was eager to escape the constriction of the small town and to find some much-needed freedom. Over the noise of the city, I could barely hear the siren call of the Midwestern mindset that called me towards comfort and sameness. 

In St. Louis, I had more options. The music wasn’t just country. The food wasn’t just meat and potatoes. Art was everywhere, on the street and in museums (oh, to have a museum!). But in spite of the variety I found, there was still an unspoken yet clear playbook to be followed. Changing the rules was uncomfortable. And we Midwesterners love our comfort. The sea of green John Deere hats that I had grown up with had simply been traded in for red Cardinals caps. 

I see this refusal to relinquish what is known and comfortable when St. Louisans staunchly refuse to acknowledge the existence of Interstate 64 and refer to it as Highway 40, despite it being labeled as both since 1988. I see it in the eerie consistency of the dating profiles I observed before I met Hilly. While swiping, there was a good chance that I would spot the Midwestern trifecta: a dog, a Blues jersey, and a beer in hand. I even see it in the more progressive, liberal parts of the city: the amount of Subaru SUVs parked along the streets in Tower Grove proves that, at our core, Midwesterners like to be part of a group.

I understand that this consistency is not inherently bad—and likely not exclusive to the Midwest. In fact, there is so much good to be discovered in the Midwestern mindset: the way people come together for the shared goal of a potluck and contribute a dish without question. The neighbor who mows your lawn or shovels your driveway without you even asking. The solace in knowing exactly what lies behind the closed doors of an unfamiliar church: the stained glass might have a different pattern, but the hymns will always be the same. 

Over the past 33 years of my life, I have benefited from this mindset. Routine and predictability gave me space to heal from my divorce and to re-establish the parts of myself that had become fragmented in the tumult of what had transpired. On my worst days, I found comfort in the sameness of it all: I would wander the aisles of Target, which reminded me of the even, neatly tilled rows of the fields that I grew up around. It was easy. 

And, for a time, I needed life to be easy and comfortable.

This past Thursday, I logged into Facebook and typed up a short but important announcement: I had resigned from my teaching job. I was officially leaving Missouri and moving to the Virgin Islands to join Hilly.

Most people were not surprised. I hadn’t exactly been coy about my intentions and my struggle with this decision. And, in true Midwestern fashion, I was showered with well-wishes, encouragement and joy. Comment after comment rolled in, some from people I hadn’t spoken to in years. All were positive. But many expressed an overarching sentiment that has been repeated: upon hearing my news, many people tell me, “I could never do what you’re doing.”

Instead of feeling proud of myself for choosing to do something different, this response caused a latent yet familiar blend of guilt and fear to surface: who was I to break the mold? Was I truly ready to leave behind the neatly-planned Midwestern lifestyle and trade it in for something wildly different? Who the hell did I think I was?

I was also surprised to hear the word “brave” bandied about so freely. Was what I was doing really on par with true bravery, a word I associate with war heroes and martyrs? Or was this the Midwestern mindset speaking up, using “brave” as coded language for “unwise” and “unstable?”

I am realizing that this response goes even deeper: it is decidedly un-Midwestern to choose yourself. Especially when doing so requires you to leave.

I truly believe that you can live an authentic, fulfilled life in the Midwest. I’ve seen many people do it. And the Midwest loves those who stay. It envelops them in community, stability and comfort. It roots them in place. It pulls out the metal folding chair and gestures for you to take a seat at the cardboard table. And to choose to take a seat is not giving up…if you are choosing your own happiness.

But, for reasons I can’t quite explain, that once-comfortable metal folding chair of the Midwestern way of life has grown, well, uncomfortable.

Perhaps it’s realizing this and choosing to leave the table that makes me seem brave. But as I take the first tentative steps away from the place that made me who I am, instead seeing how I never quite fit in here, I understand how deep my roots really are. The core of who I am remains the same. Deep down, I am still just another Midwesterner who grew up making snow angels and eating at chain restaurants. 

Even though I’m leaving, I’m not special or different or especially brave–I slept with a night light until I was 15 and refuse to change my Dairy Queen order because I know I’ll always like the M&M Blizzard. When people who have grown up in the same place as me call me brave, I want to say, “I’m just like you.” A Midwesterner who is scared of change. But one who is doing it anyway.

The dust of gravel roads will still coat my skin as I set foot on the island for the first time as a resident. I will find it strange to watch the fronds of a palm tree stay green year-round and miss the brilliant explosion of Missouri fall colors. I cannot guarantee my happiness on the island any more than I can guarantee that I will wake up tomorrow.

But in moments when I feel decidedly unbrave and wonder who gave me the permission to uproot myself, I will remember that my roots go deeper than my location. I will remind myself that I can close my eyes and drive the back roads to my childhood home in my mind and find comfort in the familiar curves and potholes.

Even though I am a scared country mouse, I will pack my bags anyway and leave comfort behind. Because it is in this discomfort that I can grow new, exploratory roots off of the sturdy tap root of my Midwestern mindset.

The Midwest will always be a part of who I am, even if I leave it. Especially if I leave it.

Where are your roots? Do you still live in the place where you grew up, or have you made a change? I’d love to hear about it.

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✨Cards for Humanity: The Three of Wands✨

Whether you’re into tarot or not, here’s a few things to consider about this weird thing called life.

What do we see when we’ve ascended to the top of a hill that’s been a long, hard-fought climb? In the Three of Wands, the warm desert unfolds in front of a traveler. The road ahead is somewhat nonexistent: the shifting sands of the terrain indicate both possibility and instability. But nonetheless, the choice has been made. It’s time to leave the safety of the solid ground and venture into the unknown.

Connected with the quick-moving element of fire, the Three of Wands speaks of a minor arcana moment in life that requires us to be decisive and to choose the uncomfortable. In the energy of the Three, we’re no strangers to the difficult. It’s taken a lot to get to the point where we can even see the possibility of something different. Now, it’s just a matter of moving our feet and placing one in front of the other.

Interestingly, The Hermit, the ninth card in the major arcana, shows a similar mountaintop scene, albeit one that shows a cold, barren landscape without a clear place to walk next. In the Hermit, truth and understanding emanate from the glowing lamp of intuition the figure holds in his hands. In contrast, the figure in the Three of Wands sees a way forward that is much more illuminated: the Universe has made it clear through external indications that this move is aligned.

The two wands pushed into the ground behind the traveler represent the past lessons that have guided us here. This imagery repeats throughout the tarot: we see the same upright columns surrounding the High Priestess and in the distance in Death.

Life offers us gates, or portals, to pass through in certain moments. In doing so, we must turn our backs on what brought us here. But doing so is not an act of rejection. The wands we leave behind stay firmly rooted in place, serving as a signpost to return to mentally when the desert ahead feels too difficult.

The Three of Wands tells us that now is the time to journey forward. The red cloak that covers the shoulders of the figure speaks of the power we claim when we choose a path for ourselves, even if it looks different than what we’ve always known.

To do so isn’t easy. But it will lead us to a place of growth that we couldn’t have achieved if we had stayed where we were.

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✨Prompts | The Three of Wands✨

Meditate. Journal. Pull some cards.

☀️ What am I being called to walk away from?

☀️ What parts of my past will support me in this journey?

☀️ Where has fear rooted me in place, and how can I channel it to make moves?

☀️ What feels powerful about choosing myself?

A poem to represent the Three of Wands.

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✨Weekly Mantra✨

Write it down. Say it out loud. Share it with a friend.

I remember where I came from as I walk towards something new.

See you back here next week. I’m planning on writing about finding friendship as an adult…and what the relationships I’ve made here in STL might look like as I leave the state.

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