I thought moving to a new city would feel like a movie montage. You know the one—me walking through a farmer’s market with an iced coffee, unpacking vinyls in my sun-drenched studio, laughing with a group of too-attractive friends I somehow already had. Instead, it felt more like sitting on an air mattress at 9:30 p.m., eating cold Chipotle alone while Googling “how to make friends in your 20s without sounding desperate.”
The truth is, nobody really talks about the weird limbo that hits after the boxes are unpacked and your driver’s license has a new state on it. Sure, there’s excitement. New coffee shops to try, new gyms to join and cancel, new streets to get lost on. But there’s also that gnawing sense of displacement. Your phone contacts still say “home,” but your life doesn’t match up with your location yet. And for a generation that’s more digitally connected than ever, we’re still struggling to figure out how to actually connect—especially when you’re starting over.
So what do you do when the rush of moving fades and you’re left with silence, spotty Wi-Fi and way too much free time? That’s where I found myself. And here’s what I’ve learned so far.
Embrace being the new kid.
It’s weird, sure. You show up to a church group or a trivia night and it feels like everyone already knows each other, already has inside jokes, already has people to text on a Tuesday. But the secret no one tells you is: most people aren’t as tightly knit as they look. That group you walked into? Half of them probably met six weeks ago. The other half might be just as lonely as you. Take the awkward step. Ask to hang out. Be the person who follows up. (Yes, it’s terrifying. No, it’s not clingy. Yes, it’s still terrifying.)
Stop waiting to feel “settled.”
You might never feel 100% ready to go to that thing, start that job, try that church. That’s fine. Do it anyway. Settling in doesn’t mean having everything figured out—it means getting used to doing life while it’s still a little uncomfortable. Faith was never supposed to feel like a Pinterest board. It’s messy. It’s in motion. And sometimes, it looks like showing up to small group when you’re not sure if you even like small groups.
Don’t rush to build a new identity.
Moving has a funny way of making you feel like you have to reinvent yourself. Like this is your big chance to become someone new. And sure, growth is good. But don’t abandon the parts of you that were forged in hard seasons just to blend in with a new crowd. You’re not a blank slate—you’re a work in progress. God isn’t trying to rebrand you. He’s just walking with you into the next chapter.
Your spiritual life might take a hit—let it be what it is.
Can we be honest for a second? It’s hard to feel spiritually “on” when your entire life is in transition. Maybe you were thriving in your last church, and now the worship songs feel flat and the sermons feel shallow. Maybe you’re trying to read your Bible in your new apartment, but all you can think about is whether your upstairs neighbor owns an elephant. It’s OK. Faith isn’t fragile. It can handle the wilderness. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is just keep showing up.
Say yes—even (especially) when it’s easier to stay in.
At some point, I realized that if I kept waiting for the perfect plan, the right church or the exact right people, I’d be stuck in limbo forever. So I started saying yes more. Yes to brunch with a coworker I barely knew. Yes to a church that wasn’t perfect but felt possible. Yes to volunteering, even when I felt too tired. Those yeses added up. Slowly. Quietly. Until, one day, I realized I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
Moving to a new city forces you to live without autopilot. You have to think about everything: where you’ll sit at church, who you’ll call when your car breaks down, how you’ll spend a Friday night when no one’s inviting you anywhere yet. It’s weirdly clarifying—and it’s humbling.
You realize really quickly that home was never just a place. It was the people who saw you, knew you and chose you anyway. And now? You get to start building that again. Brick by awkward brick, conversation by awkward conversation.
It’s slow. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. But eventually, without even noticing, you look up—and it feels less like surviving and more like belonging.
Not because you faked it, but because you stayed long enough to let something real grow.
