We're all liars when we talk about why we moved somewhere. Not intentional liars, but liars nonetheless. We say we moved for the job, the cost of living, the weather, the schools. We pull up spreadsheets comparing rent prices and average temperatures. We pretend we're rational creatures making calculated decisions.
And then we arrive, and something completely different happens.
I've talked to dozens of people who relocated in the past five years, and almost none of them stayed for the reason they moved. The software engineer who chose Austin for the tech scene barely thinks about work anymore—she stays for the breakfast taco discourse and the swimming holes. The retiree who moved to Arizona for his joints stays because he finally found a poker group that gets his sense of humor.
This is about that gap. The space between why we think we want something and what actually makes us put down roots.
Marcus moved from Ohio to Tampa in 2019 for one reason: weather. Done with scraping ice off windshields, done with gray January skies lasting until April. Tampa offered 361 days of sunshine, average high of 83 degrees, beaches within a 20-minute drive.
He went to the beach exactly four times in his first year.
What he did do: found a Cuban cafeteria near his apartment where the same group of old men played dominoes every afternoon. He started stopping by after work, just to watch. Eventually they invited him to play. Now, three years later, he goes four times a week. He's learned Spanish. He's been to their grandkids' birthday parties.
"If you asked me now why I live in Tampa," Marcus said, "I'd struggle to mention the weather at all. I stay because leaving would mean abandoning my domino guys."
This is the pattern. Over and over. The stated reason becomes background noise. Something else pushes to the foreground.
Alex has the most stereotypical story imaginable: burned-out New Yorker escapes to San Diego for the weather. He was methodical about it, using a small load moving service to ship his essential furniture—his grandmother's dining table, his record collection, the mid-century dresser he'd restored himself.
He chose ShipSmart's small move option specifically because he didn't have enough stuff to fill an entire moving truck, but too much to fit in his car. "They consolidated my stuff with other people's shipments heading west. Made the whole thing actually affordable."
The first three months were exactly what he'd imagined. Beach constantly. Fish tacos. Smug texts to New York friends about the weather.
Then something unexpected happened. He started open water swimming. Not laps in a pool—swimming in the ocean. Miles parallel to shore. One morning at La Jolla Cove, another swimmer mentioned a group that met every Saturday at 7 AM for cold water swims. No wetsuits.
"I thought he was insane," Alex laughed. "Seven AM on a Saturday? In cold water? I moved here to escape suffering."
But he showed up anyway. That first swim in 58-degree water nearly killed him. His chest seized up. He couldn't catch his breath.
He also felt more alive than he had in years.
He went back the next Saturday. And the next. He got to know the other swimmers—a retired marine biologist, a software engineer, a chef, a physical therapist, a high school English teacher. They had nothing in common except jumping into freezing water at sunrise.
After the swims, they'd sit wrapped in towels, drinking coffee, watching the sun climb higher. They'd talk about everything—work stress, relationship problems, book recommendations, whether seals or sea lions were better swimmers.
"These people know me now," Alex said. "Like really know me. There's something about sitting together after doing something hard. It breaks down walls."
The Saturday morning swim became the anchor of his week. Before he knew it, he was in the water four or five times a week.
"I barely think about the weather anymore," he said. "I'm here because if I left, I'd lose my swim crew. I'd lose those Saturday morning conversations. I'd lose being known by people who've seen me at my most vulnerable—shivering, exhausted, sometimes crying from the cold."
His grandmother's dining table now hosts the swim group for dinner once a month. His bookshelf holds books his swim friends recommended.
"I'm glad I brought my stuff from New York," he said. "But the life I built here? That wasn't in any of those boxes."
David moved to Asheville for the beer scene. He's a homebrewer, wanted to be around craft beer culture. He found his third place by accident: a climbing gym with a bar inside.
"I'd never climbed before," David said. "I just wandered in because they had a beer I wanted to try. Ended up watching people climb. It looked fun."
Three years later, he's there five days a week. He knows everyone's names, their projects, their injuries, their relationships. When he travels for work, he's antsy to get back.
"I've had friends in other cities my whole life," David said. "But I've never had a place before. A spot that's mine. Where I belong just by showing up."
The beer scene? He barely thinks about it. The gym is everything.
Jasmine moved to New Orleans for a journalism job. Straightforward career move. She was buttoned-up, professional, ambitious. Very Type A.
New Orleans broke something open in her. The city's relationship with time is different. You don't skip a friend's birthday party to work late. You don't optimize the fun out of life. You stop and talk to your neighbors. You sit on your porch.
"I learned how to waste time here," Jasmine said. "And I mean that as the highest compliment. I learned that not everything needs to be productive."
She's less ambitious now by conventional measures. She turned down opportunities in bigger markets. She works enough to pay her bills and then she stops working. She spends evenings at neighborhood bars and street festivals and friends' dinner parties.
"My old coworkers think I'm wasting my potential," she said. "But I've never been happier. I like the person I am here."
She came for a job. She stays because New Orleans lets her be a version of herself she actually enjoys living as.
If you're thinking about relocating, do the spreadsheet. Check the cost of living. Look at the weather. Make sure the basics work.
But then ask yourself questions the spreadsheet can't answer:
What kind of rhythm do you need? Fast or slow? Chaotic or calm?
What communities do you want access to? Not "what amenities" but "what people"?
What identity are you curious about? The version of yourself that hikes? That goes to jazz clubs? That makes art?
What kind of third place do you need? Where do you naturally want to linger?
These questions don't have data behind them. You can't Google your way to the answers. But they're probably more important than whether it's sunny 300 days a year.
Moving somewhere for logical reasons is fine, but it's not what makes you stay. What makes you stay is almost always some form of love.
Love for a community you found. Love for a version of yourself you became. Love for a rhythm that matches your heartbeat. Love for people who see you. Love for a Tuesday night tradition.
Love isn't on the spreadsheet.
But it's what keeps you from leaving when another city offers better weather, lower taxes, more jobs, cheaper rent. It's what makes you say "yeah, but..." when people ask why you don't just move somewhere more logical.
Marcus could move somewhere sunnier. Alex could find sunshine and ocean in a dozen other coastal cities. David could brew beer anywhere. Jasmine could advance her career faster in bigger markets.
But they won't leave. Because they found something that matters more than the reasons they came.
So yeah, move for the weather if you want. Move for the job or the rent or whatever your spreadsheet says makes sense.
Just don't be surprised when you end up staying for something else entirely. Something you can't quantify. Something you didn't even know you were looking for.
Something that feels, for the first time in a long time, like home.
