As we embark on our journey to a new life in Charlotte, NC, we not only leave behind the city where Matt and I started our careers, made our life-long friends, began our lives together, bought our first home, and brought our three children into the world, but we also leave the only place on Earth that Sadie ever existed. To say that this move is tough is an understatement. We know that this move is necessary for us, but I can't help but feel that we are leaving Sadie behind. True, part of the reason for moving is to get out of the city and into a community with good schools and a yard for the boys, but I would be lying if I said it had nothing to do with what happened here in this place that I have loved and called home for over a decade. While I love that so much here reminds me of her and that there is comfort in having access to the places she was, this city has also become a place where everything reminds me of what we lost. Our only daughter. The constant cry of an ambulance siren, a sound that I had become so used to over time that it was almost comforting, has become a sound that immediately takes me back to the most terrifying moments of my life. I see the ambulance that took her to the hospital that night and I freeze in terror before screaming and crying and not being able to compose myself for hours or days. It seems I am always near either the hospital where she came into this world or the one where she left it. I am always acutely aware of where I am in proximity to each at all times. It feels like what I imagine it would be to live in a war zone. I'm often paralyzed and always exhausted. And so we are leaving and going to a place with sunshine and space and good schools and new people. Somewhere unmarked by trauma and heartbreak. But still, it breaks my heart to leave the only place she ever lived.