A Smaller Pond: Finding My Way in a Familiar but Foreign Place

After years of moving around the Southeast while my husband completed his oncology training, we decided it was time to plant roots. We chose Lafayette, Louisiana — a place that felt familiar, but as I quickly realized, was layered with complexities I hadn’t anticipated.

I’m from Louisiana. I thought the transition would be seamless. I was excited to join the art community, to weave myself into a city that celebrates culture so vibrantly. But excitement came hand in hand with apprehension. In a big city, connections are fleeting, temporary. Here, connections are intricate — tightly woven over years and generations. To step into an established scene with experience and ambition can feel like both an invitation and a heavy expectation. I realized quickly: to fit authentically, I would have to dig deeper within myself.

Over the six years we lived away, I changed. I grew my art business from $100 pet portraits into a six-figure brand focused on licensing and commercial projects. I became skilled at walking into a room full of strangers. I shifted my worldview dramatically. I learned that I could manifest abundance, that I could build a life that once felt impossible. But returning to Louisiana meant learning how to build something else: deep, lasting community — not just presence.

One of the first things I noticed here was how tight the social bubbles are. By design, no one thinks about you — not because they’re unkind, but because you’re not yet on their radar. You’re not in the group texts or at the impromptu plans. You want to weave yourself in, but you don’t want to impose. It’s a delicate dance between wanting connection and honoring the spaces people already have. Meeting new people, forming new bonds, takes energy on both sides.

Louisiana is as stubborn as it is beautiful. Here, change is slow — and sometimes that’s a gift. Tradition, culture, and soul aren’t easily replaced with mass production or fast trends. In a world where so much starts to look the same, Louisiana stays true to itself, for better or worse.

In a big city, you’re a drop in the ocean. You don’t feel your impact in real time. Here, every ripple you make can be seen — immediately. It’s inspiring to know that your actions matter, but intimidating, too. It requires more thought, more intentionality.

One thing I didn’t expect was how much I’d miss standing out. Elsewhere, being the glitter-carrying, loud, fun Louisiana girl made me different. Here? Everyone has glitter in their purse. Everyone’s spirited, colorful, deeply creative. It’s both thrilling and unsettling. Finding my voice here means pushing my creative boundaries even further — but it also means admitting I’m still figuring out exactly who I am in this space.

Lately, I’m learning that the only true way to stand out is to speak from the heart. I’ve started sharing not just my art, but my real experiences and emotions behind it. Vulnerability feels like my only true compass in this close-knit place.

Still, living somewhere where “everyone knows everyone” has its challenges. There’s history you don’t know, dynamics you can’t see. One wrong word can carry farther than you think. And it’s not just me — my husband, my kids — we’re all trying to find our way. Our growing pains are shared, and sometimes they bleed into our social lives.

At Festival International, the feelings all came to a head. In a crowd of thousands, I met another transplant, who also lived in North Carolina for some time. Our conversation was so brief, but meaningful. She looked me in the eye and asked, “Do you find living here insular?” I nearly cried. In that moment, I realized I wasn’t alone. People always talk about small-town kids moving to big cities — but no one prepares you for doing the opposite. It’s a different kind of loneliness, one that’s rarely spoken aloud.

If I could give advice — to myself, and to anyone else finding themselves in this in-between space — it would be this:

Stay open. Stay grateful.

The people who make time for you are the ones who matter. Release the expectations. Let the right experiences and people find you.

There is beauty in floating for a little while.

There is strength in finding your own way — slowly, authentically, and deeply.