Recently, my Dad, my bestie in Kansas, and my bestie in Arizona have asked the question: Now that it’s been a couple of months, how is it living back in Washington?

A valid question, but the answer is not so quick.

After spending nearly my entire life in the misty green embrace of Western Washington, I thought I knew what “home” meant. Then, two years ago, I traded rain for relentless sunshine, moving to the Tempe-Gilbert-Chandler triangle in Arizona.

I learned quickly that in the desert, seasons are measured in shades of beige, “cool” means anything under 90°F, and iced coffee is a year-round survival tactic.

But now… I’m back. Sorta.

See, when I packed my bags for Arizona, I figured it was just a pit stop. A few years under the desert sun, maybe another Costco transfer down the road — Texas, perhaps Florida — somewhere warm enough that my raincoat could live permanently in the closet, collecting dust and regret.

Arizona and Washington are as different as a cowboy boot and a waterproof hiking boot. In Washington, you measure your day by how many cups of coffee you’ve had; in Arizona, it’s how many times you’ve reapplied sunscreen. Washington air smells like wet cedar and saltwater; Arizona air smells like dust, citrus blossoms, and the faint sound of your skin sizzling if you step outside at 2 p.m.

But through all of it — the cactus, the coffee, the cloud cover — I’ve stayed the same good ole Los.

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The Who That Changed the Where

Then last year, something happened that flipped my “where to next?” map upside down.

Or rather… someone happened.

Her name? Jen Welch.
Her title? Principal Jen.
Her effect on my plans? Let’s just say that Texas and Florida quietly slid off the table the moment our relationship had real traction.

We met, we clicked, and we quickly discovered that “long-distance” is fine for Amazon deliveries, but not so great for love. We kept visiting one another — though I’ll admit, she visited me about three times more than I managed to make it north. Even so, it wasn’t enough.

We wanted to be together. Not just in love, but in the same zip code.

At first, we tried to imagine Jen moving to Arizona. She’s a #tanlinesandgoodtimes kinda girl, and me being Tisoy, I’m practically solar-powered. But a quick look at principal salaries in Arizona vs. Washington was sobering — Washington was near the top, Arizona wasn’t even in the Top 10. As much as we loved the idea of desert sunsets together, the pay cut was a dealbreaker.

On the other hand, Costco pays me the same whether I’m in Phoenix or Puget Sound, so if someone was going to make the move… it was me.

And that’s when our shared core value kicked in: Family First. Her family is here in Washington. My family in the States is also here. My dad lives in the Philippines, my mom passed over 20 years ago — so there was no way I’d ask her to separate from her kids for me. Not that she would!

On December 1st, I made my Tabula Rasa Day Declaration: Get to Jen. I didn’t post it on social media or make it a public thing. But it was etched in my heart. She even gave me a leather-bound journal for Christmas, and my first entry matched my declaration: Get to Jen.

The day I told her I was serious, I looked straight into the camera on my iMac and asked, “When do I get to you, now that we’ve established who’s going where?”

Her answer was simple: “Whenever you want, my Love.”

That was all I needed to hear.

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The “Sorta” Part

So here I am — back in Washington.

Sorta.

I say “Sorta” because while my driver’s license now has a Washington address again, this isn’t the same version of Washington I left two years ago. Back then, I was a lifetime local who could navigate I-5 traffic patterns by muscle memory, had my go-to coffee spots memorized by exit number, and felt like I’d already seen and done it all here.

Now? I’m looking at it with a different set of eyes — partly because Arizona sandblasted some perspective into me, and partly because Jen is here. And that changes everything.

The rain doesn’t feel like a drag; it feels like a homecoming. The evergreens don’t just blend into the background; they stand tall like old friends waving me back. Even the overcast days — the ones that used to make me crave a vacation — now feel like a cozy blanket I forgot I owned.

Plus, I’m not slipping back into the exact same life I had before. This isn’t a rewind; it’s a reset. New city. New routines. New chapter. Same Los — just a version who’s traded in “Where should I move next?” for “Where should we go for dinner tonight?”

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You Can Never Go Home Again

There’s an old phrase — you can never go home again. It doesn’t mean you can’t physically drive back to your old neighborhood or walk the same streets you once knew. It means that even if you do, it will never feel exactly the way it used to. The place changes. You change. And those two versions — the past and the present — will never fully overlap again.

Sometimes, that realization stings. It’s the quiet ache of being homesick for a time and place that no longer exists. The Welsh have a word for it: hiraeth. It’s more than nostalgia — it’s a deep longing for a home that may have changed, disappeared, or maybe never really existed the way you remember it. It can be tied to certain streets, certain seasons, or even certain people you no longer see.

Coming back to Washington, I’ve felt flashes of that hiraeth. I’ll pass by a corner store or a coffee shop I used to visit and realize the owner’s gone, the menu’s changed, the vibe’s different. And I’ll get that pang — the wish to step back into a version of this place that’s frozen in my memory. But then Jen will slide her hand into mine, and suddenly the longing shifts. I’m not chasing the old version of home anymore. I’m building a new one.

So yeah — welcome to Washington… sorta.
The zip code says I’m home, but the truth is, I’m starting fresh. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.