First steps...
Spring has, well... sprung, and it's now time to pull the trigger and take the first steps toward the next chapter, and a new beginning in Colorado.
US AND THE HOMESTEAD
3/20/20267 min read
March: Time to get the ball rolling to make the big move
March in the desert southwest has a wholly different and undefinable feel. I don’t really know how to explain it. It just shows up one morning with a different kind of light, a different kind of air, and a quiet reminder that winter doesn’t last forever. After months of cold mornings and long nights in the oilfield towns of New Mexico, that shift feels like someone cracked a window in a stuffy room. You breathe a little deeper. You look a little farther down the road. And if you’ve been waiting for the right moment to make a big move, March has a way of saying, Alright. Let’s go.
Right now, that is exactly where we are. Mom, Tess and I— middle of March, bags packed, keys in hand. With a whole lot of excitement about finally heading back to Colorado to start the next chapter.
Not talking about it. Not planning it. Not waiting for the “right time.” Actually doing it.
Mom’s Ready for Something Better
Mom’s been housebound more than she likes this winter, and it has been wearing on her. Oilfield towns aren’t built for comfort, and winter cold and ice don’t help. She’s been feeling cooped up, stuck in the same rooms, the same routines, what she can see of the same boring, dust covered view out the window. But lately you can definitely hear the lift in her voice when she talks about Colorado. She’s excited to get out of the house, breathe different air, and see the property again.
She has never been a desert person; in fact, she hates the desert altogether. Ever since I showed her the property in Colorado when I bought it 3 years ago, she has been hooked. She misses that land. She misses the quiet. She misses the feeling of being somewhere that isn’t all noise and trucks and rent prices that make you question your life choices. She wants her own space again—something steady, something peaceful, something that doesn’t feel like temporary survival, something that is hers.
And honestly, I want that for her. I want that for all of us.
Five Days, One Hotel, and a Lot of Ground to Cover
We’re heading up for five days. Five days in a hotel while we sort out the next step. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary. The main mission is simple: find a house to rent that works for Mom. Something safe. Something accessible. Something she can move around in without fear or frustration. Her sight and mobility issues mean the house has to be right—not just “good enough.”
This house needs to be close to the property. Close enough that I can drive over every day and start working the land, without burning through fuel and miles like I’m still running oilfield routes. I want to be able to get up, head over, put in real work, and come back without feeling like I crossed half the damned state.
I’ve found three houses online that, so far, look promising. they don’t check all of the boxes, but they check the most important ones - accessible and safe for mom. We’ll check those out first - Walk through them, see how they feel. If they don’t fit, we’ll look at others. We’re not rushing into the wrong place. This move matters too much for that.
The Oilfield Town Reality
Living in the oilfield towns of New Mexico has been… in at least one word, expensive. More expensive than it has any right to be. Rent, utilities, food—everything is inflated. And then there’s the car payment for the vehicle I bought specifically to make things easier for Mom. A car she can get into without struggling. A car she can ride in without pain. Worth every penny, but it adds to the pile.
All told, my monthly bills here are over $4,500. An insane amount just to exist in a place we don’t want to be.
And that would have been manageable if I was still working. But I got laid off in November, via email. And the severance package was a joke—one month’s pay. That was it. After years of work, years of miles, years of wear and tear, that was the send‑off.
So, I had to pull everything from my 401K and drop it into savings to keep us afloat. House bills, my bills, some of Mom’s bills. That money is dwindling incredibly fast. Faster than anyone would be comfortable with.
We should have moved to Colorado right after the layoff. That was the plan. But winter hit hard, and moving Mom in the middle of winter wasn’t an option. Her health, her mobility, her comfort—they come first. And at that time, there were very few houses available that would have worked for her. So we waited. We stretched every dollar. We held steady.
Now the window is open, and I’ll be damned if it shuts before I can climb through.
Colorado: Better Programs, Better Costs, Better Fit
Colorado isn’t just where the land is; it’s where the support is. The medical programs for the elderly and disabled are miles ahead of what New Mexico offers. The difference is night and day. Doctors are better and closer, and Colorado has systems that actually help. Systems that make life easier, not harder. Systems that give Mom what she needs without me having to fight tooth and nail for every appointment, every refill, every piece of paperwork.
The cost of living in Colorado —southern Colorado, at least—compared to these eastern New Mexico oilfield towns, is so much better. Rent is markedly more reasonable. Utilities don’t feel like a punishment. Food doesn’t require a second job. It’s not cheap, but it’s sane. And sanity goes a long way when you’re trying to build something real.
The Land: Where the Work Begins
This property in Colorado has been calling to me for years. High desert surrounded by dramatic mountains, pine trees, and lakes. It truly is the best of both worlds. A place where I can build something that’s mine. Something without a mortgage. Something that no one can take away from me. Something that feels like home because it is home.
We’ve talked about the homestead for so long that it almost feels like it already exists. But it doesn’t. Not yet. It’s raw land. No clearing. No improvements. No structures. Just potential. Just promise. Just the bones of what will eventually become our home base.
Now, the wait is over. Finally, we’re going to start.
Mom is excited to see the property again. She’s excited to have her own space, somewhere that feels like life instead of survival. Tess is excited because, well, Tess is always excited when the truck starts moving, and she knows she's going somewhere, anywhere with me. And me? I’m ready. Ready to work. Ready to build. Ready to stop talking about the homestead and actually start shaping it with my own hands. I never really thought about it until right now. I have to say that I need this move. I need the peace, I need the dirt on my hands, I need the Colorado air to fill my lungs, I need to know that we are moving forward with the plan and that my Mom and Tess are in a safe and comfortable place.
This Move Is About More Than Money or Distance
This move has been coming for a long time. It is not about running from something; it’s about reclaiming something— stability, purpose, direction. It’s about getting out of a place that drains us and into a place that fills us back up. It’s about building a life that isn’t dependent on a volatile oilfield market. It’s about giving Mom comfort and safety. It’s about giving Tess space to run. It’s about giving me the chance to build something real, something lasting, something honest.
Five Days, Three Houses, One Big Step Forward
Five days in a hotel. Three houses to check out. A property waiting for us. A future ready to be built.
I’m not naïve. I know it won’t be easy. I know there will be setbacks. I know there will be long days and tired nights and moments where the work feels bigger than the energy I have. But that’s fine. Hard work doesn’t scare me. Starting over doesn’t scare me, I’ve been here before – three times actually (Murphy’s Law and I go wayyy back). Building something from scratch doesn’t scare me.
Staying here scares me.
Staying stuck scares me.
Watching the savings dwindle while waiting for the “right moment” scares me. I'm afraid that if we don't leave now, and I don't start making progress on the land and getting something built for us, something is going to happen to completely derail me from being able to get it done. That thought actually keeps me awake at night.
So we’re going to be moving, come hell or high water. We’re going. Taking the first real step toward the homestead, toward Colorado, toward the life we’ve been trying to build for years.
Middle of March: Time to Go
It’s the middle of March, and the road is calling. The mountains are calling. The land is calling. And we’re answering.
Me, Mom, and Tess—packed up, ready, hopeful, and excited to begin this new chapter. Excited to start building the homestead. ready to finally move toward the life we’ve been trying to build for years. Looking forward to getting out of the oilfield towns and into a place that feels like home. Really wanting to move towards the ultimate goal, be safe and secure and self sufficient, on my land, and just be comfortable.
We should have moved sooner, and that's on me, and out of an abundance of caution. But we’re getting the ball rolling and moving forward.
And that is all that matters right now...
NEXT: A new chapter, and phone call that changed everything..
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