The torn and tattered social fabric of the Pacific Northwest.

I get asked this question more often than I expected: Why are you leaving the Pacific Northwest?

Sometimes it comes with genuine curiosity. Sometimes it comes wrapped in assumptions. And often, it comes from people who sense that something here isn’t quite holding — even if they can’t name it yet.

So let’s name it.

We aren’t leaving because the land isn’t beautiful. It is.
We aren’t leaving because we don’t care about justice, equity, or community. We do.
We aren’t leaving lightly.

We’re leaving because the social fabric here is no longer intact — and living inside a place where connection is thin but performance is constant eventually becomes unsustainable.

Socially Active, Relationally Hollow

The Pacific Northwest is busy. There are events, causes, workshops, panels, groups, meetups, statements, alignments. On paper, it looks like a thriving civic culture.

In practice, it often feels like a place where people orbit one another without ever truly connecting.

Friendships stall at politeness. Invitations rarely turn into continuity. Plans dissolve quietly. People speak the language of community but struggle to practice the habits that actually sustain it — showing up consistently, following through, making room for one another’s full humanity.

You can be surrounded by people and still feel profoundly untethered.

This isn’t about individual malice. It’s about a regional culture that has normalized distance disguised as civility. The emotional tone is pleasant. The relational depth is shallow. Over time, that gap wears on you.

The Cost of Constant Emotional Labor

When community doesn’t form organically, it has to be manufactured — and that manufacturing takes work. Reaching out. Initiating. Re-initiating. Being endlessly flexible. Not asking for too much. Interpreting silence generously. Carrying the weight of connection without shared responsibility.

That kind of emotional labor adds up.

For people who come from cultures, families, or traditions where community is built through continuity, reciprocity, and shared obligation, this imbalance is especially stark. When you’re used to relationships that deepen over time, a place where everything remains provisional can feel quietly brutal.

Eventually, you realize you’re expending more energy trying to belong than you’re receiving in return.

Why This Matters Spiritually

My work — my witchcraft, my spirituality, my worldview — isn’t aesthetic. It isn’t abstract. It isn’t a performance or a mood.

It’s grounded in relationship: with people, with place, with memory, with responsibility.

Spiritual practice doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It’s shaped by the social ecosystem around it. When accountability is thin, when relationships are disposable, when belonging is conditional or fleeting, the work becomes harder. Not richer. Not deeper. Just harder.

Place matters.
Social context matters.
The people around you matter.

And there comes a point where staying in a place that doesn’t support real connection starts to erode the very things you’re trying to protect.

This Isn’t About Hate. It’s About Alignment.

Leaving the Pacific Northwest isn’t a rejection. It’s an acknowledgment.

This region is aligned for some people — especially those who thrive on independence, low obligation, and loosely held ties. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that.

But it is not aligned for everyone.

We are choosing to move toward a place where community is slower, messier, more demanding — and more real. Where relationships aren’t always easy, but they are durable. Where people show up even when it’s inconvenient. Where belonging isn’t provisional.

We are choosing rootedness over motion. Continuity over novelty. Depth over ease.

One Last Thing

This blog isn’t a customer service desk, a spiritual explainer, or a request-for-clarification space. The writing is the work. It’s where I think, wrestle, name, and reckon.

If something here resonates, sit with it.
If it doesn’t, that’s fine too.

But this decision — like the work itself — comes from lived experience, not theory. And it’s one we’re making with eyes open, heart intact, and a clear understanding of what we need to live well.