Dear Mom, I made it. I don't know how I did it without you, but I did. You said I would love it here in Kentucky, and I do now, but man it was difficult in the beginning. What made it even worse is that I knew you were the only one who would understand what I was going through, and I couldn't call you. I couldn't cry to you about the culture shock – about how much slower life moves down here, how no one is afraid of conversation, how everything will get done ‘when it gets done', about the one-lane hilly holler roads that gave me panic attacks every time I drove them, about the thick accents and phrases I didn't understand. I knew if I could just talk to you, you'd explain everything and make me feel so much better. But I couldn't…I had to get through it on my own. And for a while, I was mad at God for taking you when He did – when I needed you more than I've ever needed you. But then spring came, and oh my gosh – I can't tell you how many times I wanted to send you a picture of a new wildflower I'd never seen before, or a bird – you would have loved the birds down here. And the sunsets. And the gentle rains. And the way the fog settles in between the mountains in the evenings and rises as mist in the early mornings. How was it possible that such a beautiful place existed, and so many people had never experienced it? I spent so many summer evenings on my porch, just admiring nature, and wondering how a place that was so breathtakingly gorgeous could be so poverty-stricken and desperate. I knew that if anyone would understand how I felt, it was you…and I wished I could call you. There have been so many times I've thought about all the times I didn't call you…the weeks and sometimes even months we went without talking because of different issues we were struggling with…and I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the irony of it – because I probably would have called you almost every day, if not multiple times a day, this past year. There were so many struggles, so many weird moments, so many new experiences that warranted a phone call – like how the Walmart here is Black Friday every Friday, and there's such a thing as “Holler Dollar” and “holler dogs,” and the people here eat this cheese on their sandwiches that I think would taste better as a dip, and there's a native fruit call a Paw Paw that tastes like a cross between a kiwi and a banana, and kangaroo jerky is a real thing, and one shot of moonshine goes straight to your head, and almost everyone owns a side-by-side, and there are giant crickets here and five different kinds of hornets and more slugs than I've ever seen in my life, and one inch of snow is enough to shut down the town, and people will get mad if you insult their Double Kwik pizza rolls, and bluegrass music is wonderful, and did you know I turned 40? How weird is that? I'll never forget sitting on your bed, crying, thinking you'd be upset when I told you we were moving to Kentucky. You were sick, and I was terrified to leave you. But you smiled and hugged me and told me it was okay – you told me I was going to love it. And again, when I stopped at the hospital on our way out of town, you held me tight and told me not to cry, and told me again I was going to love it. Well mom, I want you to know – I do. It has by far and away been the craziest, most difficult year of my life, and it probably would have been a little easier if I'd been able to call you, but I made it. I'm grateful for who I've become. It's ironic - I feel closer to you, and more like you than I ever did before. I know your spirit was here cheering me on. Thank you for supporting my move here. I'm excited to see what this next year brings. I love you and miss you. Happy New Year, mom.