Running Toward Roots
Leaving home, searching for belonging, and discovering that healing cannot be outsourced
Before jet bridges and polished arrivals, there were stairs, tarmacs, and the strange feeling of stepping into another life.
Before jet bridges and polished arrivals, there were stairs, tarmacs, and the strange feeling of stepping into another life.
Most women change their hair after a relationship ends.
I changed my zip code instead, moving 3,000 miles away.
I needed to discover who I was away from everyone who believed they knew everything about me.
The truth is, I was not entirely sure I knew either.
Lean in close… a little closer.
If I am going to share personal details with you, I need you to promise to remember that who I was is not who I am.
I was running away, though at the time I probably called it reinvention.
The truth is, I did not yet know what I was running toward.
I was running from a marriage that had ended.
From the grief of losing my fiancé to suicide.
From a family that believed they knew everything about me, even as I no longer felt certain I knew myself at all.
And there was also a doctor who believed chemotherapy was the best way to heal me.
So I ran.
First, I ran to a nutritionist searching for information.
Then I ran to a travel agent and booked a flight to Los Angeles.
And when I arrived, I went shopping for my reinvention.
Looking back, I am grateful I had every one of those experiences.
My only wish is that I had the wisdom then to perhaps live them differently.
And there is a particular kind of confusion that comes when a person desperately wants a different life but cannot yet picture what that life might be.
I knew I wanted something different.
I just did not yet have language for what that meant.
All I knew was that “different” looked like 3,000 miles between me and everything I had known.
I moved from a place where everyone knew my name to a city where people called everyone “honey” and “sweetie.”
Somehow, that small shift felt comforting to me.
I did not come to Los Angeles knowing no one.
I had family there.
Family I was excited to know more deeply.
Family like Aunt Marie, my great-aunt and my grandmother’s baby sister.
She and I were always close.
Long before I ever moved west, she called Los Angeles “Utopia Land,” and somehow, she planted a seed in me.
My great-grandparents had lived there too, though I never had the chance to meet them.
I had many cousins here too.
Looking back now, I wonder if perhaps I was not only running away.
Maybe I was also running toward roots I wanted to grow within.
It was early morning when I arrived.
I stepped off the plane and walked down the stairs onto the tarmac, just as people did in the 1950s.
Somehow, that felt special to me.
Different.
As though I was stepping not only into another city, but into a different world.
When I stepped onto the ground in Burbank, I inhaled deeply, expecting freedom to fill my lungs.
Instead, I was met by the smell of jet fuel and a heavy layer of smog hanging over Los Angeles.
I remember pausing.
Hesitating.
It felt as though the cloud I had spent months trying to outrun was somehow waiting for me there, suspended visibly above the city.
Fear moved through me then.
So did uncertainty.
But I stepped forward anyway.
Somehow, I believed I would figure it out.
I was unsure how or where to make friends, so I went shopping and hoped I could find a two-for-one deal.
I discovered the Sunset Strip with its high-end boutiques, and before long, I became well known in the stores, building rapport with the salespeople.
But rapport and friendship are very different things.
I still had a lot to learn.
One of my favorite people was a beautiful, full-figured Black woman named Emerald.
Her face glowed with joy, and every time I entered the store, her arms splayed open and wrapped me up in an enormous warm hug.
Spending money does more than buy dresses.
It buys warmth and love.
Looking back, I understand I was searching for more than a new home.
I was searching for community.
Belonging.
Connection.
There was a deep void lingering within me, and for a long time, I believed belonging would heal it.
It would take years before I truly understood that I was the only one who could tend to those wounds.
Only then could I begin to feel a sense of belonging anywhere.
Some wings are built slowly, through grief, courage, reflection, and the quiet decision to keep going. Enjoy Learning to Fly by Tom Petty and the Heartbreatkers—I did.
If this story touched something inside you, I’d be honored to hear your reflections
Whether you’ve lived through chaos, rebuilt your voice, or carried wounds no one else could see, your story matters. Sharing reminds us that we are not alone in the slow, powerful work of becoming.
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With Gratitude,
Chellie 🩷
Chellie Grossman is a Certified Life Coach, Keynote Speaker, and Writer who empowers leaders to reclaim their voice, embrace their strength, and lead with authenticity and purpose.