My uprooting was not casual. It was the bold, trembling decision to stop delaying the things I secretly dreamed of but was almost too shy to pray for. Less than six months before clearing out my apartment and deciding what still belonged in my life as a domestic violence surviving widow, I told my father the plan. I had just returned from Gabon for my grandmother’s burial, and something shifted. I told him that in fourteen months, I would quit my job and uproot my life back