Finding Home and Hope in a Downsized Life

Three months ago, my husband, Jim, and I packed up our lives—along with our small fox terrier, Milo, and our tuxedo cat, Bob—and moved to a new house. We left behind a home of 20 years, a sprawling space with ocean views, a massive garden and a kitchen we had lovingly remodeled.

Downsizing felt like the right decision. The old house, once perfect for raising three of our kids in our blended family, had become too much for just the two of us. Still, the transition hasn’t been easy. Some days, I catch myself calling our former house “home,” as if this new place is temporary, a rental we’ll soon leave.

But then I remind myself: We chose this. And we are fortunate. Unlike the thousands of families displaced by the devastating Los Angeles wildfires, we weren’t forced to start over—we had the luxury of deciding. That shift in perspective helps.

Adjusting to Less

Our new house is smaller, simpler—fewer bedrooms, less square footage and less than half of the land. But an acre is still plenty, and the house itself is beautiful: high fir ceilings, expansive windows, soft natural light. My new office, perched upstairs with views of trees and mountains, is my favorite space.

We gave our five chickens to a farm before moving, knowing we wanted a lifestyle with less upkeep. And yet, we still arrived with too much. Piles of unpacked boxes remind us daily that we overestimated our storage. The kitchen, in particular, is overloaded—stacks of pans, jars of pastas and vinegars, an embarrassing number of jams. We’ve started embracing the challenge of living with less, keeping only what we truly need.

Landscaping a New Life

Our old garden was a lush, productive paradise—40 fruit trees, a full array of herbs and raised beds overflowing with greens. The new property, though promising, is bare by comparison. Just four fruit trees remain: a towering Giant Fuyu persimmon, a gnarled old plum, a thick-skinned lemon and a citrus tree that has yet to reveal its identity.

We’ve begun planning: fencing to keep out the deer, new garden boxes and the planting of another dozen fruit trees—apple, tangerine, avocado, peach, blood orange. We brought over our beloved potted fig trees and ‘Ice Cream’ banana and many succulents, their roots still waiting for a permanent home.

Scattered across the property, native live oaks stand sturdy and timeless, their twisted branches reaching skyward. A few Monterey pines and a towering deodar cedar add to the mix, while small olive trees—favorite snacks of the local deer—struggle to hold their ground. There’s an unexpected Australian presence too: two striking red-barked Tristania and several delicate paper-bark trees.

Near the house, slender birches frame the front windows, their leaves catching the light. And by the pond, two willows dip their branches toward the water, as if willing it to stay year-round.

Did I mention we have a pond? Or, as the realtor optimistically described it, a “vernal pond.” In winter, it fills with rainwater, attracting mallards and an ear-splitting chorus of tree frogs. By late summer, it’s an eyesore—cracked mud, buzzing with mosquitoes. We’re still debating its future. Filling it? Redirecting the runoff? Could it become a seasonal water source? For now, we watch and wait.

Making Home, One Meal at a Time

The hardest part of moving isn’t the logistics—it’s the feeling of disorientation, of being untethered from routine. After weeks of unpacking, I finally did the one thing that made me feel grounded: I made marmalade.

We are lucky—our old home’s new owners generously let us pick fruit from the trees we had planted years ago. With bags of blood oranges, Meyer lemons and store-bought pink grapefruit, I simmered a batch of my favorite, Three-Citrus Marmalade.

As the jars sealed with their familiar pop, I felt something settle inside me. I am comforted by these provisions. Here is plenty for now, and plenty for the future. This kitchen—still a work in progress, still imperfect—was mine now.

Some traditions, like new garden boxes to fill with herbs, tomatoes and beans, will return in time. Others will evolve, shaped by this new space, this new rhythm.

Change is hard. But the more I cook in this house, the more I dig into our new garden, the more it feels like home.