How a childhood move from California to Kansas became the foundation of everything I am today.
February 15, 2026
In 1997, when I was 11 years old, my world split in two.
On one side was Hayward, California — my friends, my school, my normal. On the other side was a place I couldn't even picture yet: Linwood, Kansas.
I didn't want to move.
I didn't want to leave my three best friends. I didn't want to leave the life I understood. At 11 years old, belonging is everything. And I felt like mine was being taken away.
I remember writing letters to my friends after we moved. Real letters. Stamps. Envelopes. Pages filled with updates about a life I didn't quite understand yet. We kept in touch for years. That's how tightly I held onto who I was before Kansas.
Because when we arrived in Linwood, I had no friends.
Hayward had over 100,000 people. Linwood had barely 300.
I went from city streets to dirt roads. From neighborhoods full of noise to wide open fields. From always being surrounded by people to feeling completely alone.
And the bugs. I will never forget the bugs.
Kansas felt foreign. Quiet in a way that was almost loud. There were no crowds to blend into. No corners to disappear around. Everyone knew everyone — except me.
I was the outsider.
The California girl.
The new kid.
At 11 years old, that identity can either shrink you or sharpen you.
For a while, it shrank me. I missed my friends deeply. I missed familiarity. I missed feeling known. I preferred my school in California. I preferred the version of life I had already figured out.
But Kansas did something California never required me to do.
It forced me to build myself.
In California, I had an established world. In Kansas, there was no paved path. If I wanted something, I had to create it.
I was into cheerleading, and that became my anchor.
There weren't elite gyms or specialty trainers in a town that small. So I practiced every single day. I watched old VHS tapes over and over, rewinding and replaying moves until I got them right. I studied routines. I drilled jumps in the yard. I built skill in isolation.
Looking back, that was the beginning of something much bigger than cheer.
That was the beginning of discipline.
Kansas didn't give me the environment I would have chosen. It gave me the environment that required me to grow.
When you move from a city of over 100,000 to a town of a few hundred, you learn quickly that no one is coming to define you. There's no built-in momentum. No familiar safety net.
You either adapt — or you disappear.
I adapted.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Intentionally.
Being an outsider became my training ground. I learned how to observe before speaking. How to earn trust. How to work quietly until results spoke for me. I learned that identity isn't something a place hands you — it's something you build.
Kansas made me resilient.
It made me independent.
It made me resourceful.
And maybe most importantly — it made me strong enough to stand alone.
I didn't realize it then, but the sadness I felt at 11 was shaping me. Writing letters to my California friends taught me loyalty. Practicing cheer alone in a rural yard taught me grit. Feeling different taught me confidence that didn't depend on fitting in.
California gave me comfort.
Kansas gave me character.
If we had stayed in Hayward, my life would have been good. But it would have been easier. I would have followed a system already designed for me. Instead, in Kansas, I had to design myself.
And that changed everything.
Today, when I look at my life — my family, my stability, the woman I've become — I know that move in 1997 was a turning point. Not because it was easy. Because it wasn't.
It hurt.
But growth often does.
Kansas taught me that you don't have to start in the environment you prefer to build a life you love. Sometimes the smallest towns shape the strongest foundations. Sometimes dirt roads lead to clarity. Sometimes being the outsider becomes your advantage.
I am grateful for my life now. For my family. For the strength I carry. For the ability to adapt when things change.
At 11, I thought Kansas took something from me.
Now I know it gave me everything.
Home isn't always where you feel comfortable.
Sometimes, home is where you are forged.
And for me, that place is Kansas.
Written by Courtney Orr — Kansas