A year ago, Rob was getting ready to make the move to Minnesota and we had no idea what to expect. We knew it would be cold, and we knew there'd be snow, but I don't think we had any idea how much of a different world it would be from Virginia. He packed his things and went, and I immediately began romanticizing the thought of living in a strange city together, with a new climate and considerable lack of familiarities.

Now that I am here and away from my friends and my family, there are certainly days that feel lonely for us. But last weekend, I walked out onto a frozen Lake Harriet and stood there, looking around, trying to comprehend that what I was standing on was not earth, but water. I felt equal parts excitement and fear, and soon was just overwhelmed with complete gratitude for the opportunity to be here right now.

Until Minneapolis, there has never been a time in my life where I have found myself in a completely unfamiliar place doing completely unfamiliar things. Before I left, I thought I would be afraid, but now I'm here and I'm not.

So why don't we go somewhere only we know?--Those were the words that comforted me in the six months that Rob and I lived in different time zones, where he was alone doing his first winter and I dreamed of snowy roads and an unfamiliar city waiting for me. I wrote them down and sang them and prayed that this new life of ours would become exactly what we wanted it to be.

We've had some family come to visit us here, but sometimes it feels as though we haven't shared Minneapolis very much with the people back home. It really does feel like our place--the city where we lived as an engaged couple, and the first place we'll live as newlyweds. Our favorite coffee shops and restaurants and lakes are just that--ours. One day we will move on and go somewhere new, but we'll always have Minneapolis.

It was this year that I finally stopped measuring my life by semester.

Do grown people still do that? For so long, my year began in the fall, took a break around Christmas, and began again in January before ending in the spring. It was Freshman Year and The Summer Of, over and over again, I guess until recently, when I started running out of things to call them. I finished graduate school in October of 2012, and then it was 2013.

Recently, I've been thinking about the years that passed by not so long ago, the ones I always refer to by name--those years that made me into who I am today. I look back and am often slightly embarrassed by the girl who was there at the time, living out the scenarios that are now my memories. Those last years of high school seemed so crucial, and yet today I look back and say "how stupid," even though I needed them.

Junior Year of High School is when I started dating the boy who, five or six whole months later would be the first guy to break my heart. He taught me how to get over something and be stronger for it at the end of the day. I was really into my running and my school and my friends and my religion and I never anticipated a day when things would be different. I applied to colleges and went on visits and tried to picture a day where things might change, but I just couldn't see it yet.

Senior Year of High School was dramatic and life-changing in the way that high school is. New boyfriend, new heartbreak, except that this one taught me how not to get over something, and all the ways you could be regretful at the end of the day. I graduated and went to college, convinced that I would never change, that I would keep all the friends I had left back home, that this must be what growing up felt like.

Freshman and Sophomore Years of College were full of new people and self-discovery; a psychology major and a Spanish major and a whole lot of intro classes before I finally declared an English major. I learned that just because someone is handsome and nice doesn't mean he is sent to you from heaven above or something, and that notion was challenged at the beginning of Junior Year when the boy I believed to be my soul mate sat down on my bed and broke up with me. He was everything I thought I ever wanted, and for a year I had ignored how hard I needed to try to be everything he thought he ever wanted. Real love is work sometimes, but it isn't hard, and I hadn't learned that yet. He taught me to love myself and be happier for it at the end of the day.

The rest of Junior Year and the following Senior Year was what I suspect college is really supposed to be--I spent time making awesome memories with my friends. I was deeply engrossed in my courses, and read hundreds of pages a day in between classes. I started feeling like William Shakespeare and I knew each other well. I stayed out too late, often drank too much, and wore ridiculous outfits to theme parties with my roommates. We got in stupid fights and never really learned how to communicate until much later, but they were my best friends and we loved each other. We ate chips and queso dip almost every afternoon in our living room. I got a tattoo, wrote every day, could barely picture a life where I wasn't a student, and met the man that, five and a half years later, I'm about to marry.

My life has been so blessed. As I grow older I am learning to be so thankful for everyone whose path has crossed mine; for everything that has gotten me to where I am today. When I was in Virginia for Thanksgiving, my old roommates and I got together for a weekend and we picked up right where we left off and had a great time, but we still all seemed so much different--the better, adult versions of ourselves. Life happens and you lose track of time. Earlier this week, Rob and I were driving to dinner together, bundled up in our coats and scarves and I almost laughed looking out the snowy window thinking about winter in Minnesota--this random possibility that has become a reality for us. We live here now--we're done with school and we're working and this is our home now. I love it. I wouldn't change a thing.

Maybe as we grow older, we encounter fewer defining moments and feel less inclined to identify years in a special way. But maybe that's not true, either, because in 2013 I got engaged to the love of my life and moved to a new part of the country. I started blogging full time and challenged myself to write more and cook more and let go of the things that scare me. I'll never forget this year--it has been one of the best. Losing my dog has made it bittersweet, missing him so much and knowing that none of us will live forever, but hoping that we'll all be reunited in some way in the future.

And with 2014 looking at us from the last page of our calendars, I know that this new year will also be life-changing as I walk down the aisle and get a new last name and will probably move again (this time with my husband) and try to find more ways to push myself and get better and feel even more thankful for this life we're living.

All of these years are special, no matter how we refer to them when we look back.

Sometimes I forget that we've shared three apartments.

The first one was in Roanoke, where I found anxiety and started graduate school. I felt like such an adult, grinding my coffee beans fresh every morning and parking in my garage. Rob lived there over the summer, and then Christmas break, and then moved in for another summer after his graduation from Hampden-Sydney, but it felt less like our apartment than it felt like it was mine, even if it didn't fit.

The second one was in Charlottesville, with weird green carpet and a tiny kitchen, but a little office/guest room that made us feel like we had a home. We spent hours in libraries and computer labs, at bars with cheap drinks and cornhole set up under a string of outdoor lights, and were constantly with friends. I felt like less of an adult, with a part-time job as a barista and afternoons full of research, and I loved it.

Now we're in Minneapolis, in the high-rise apartment with a balcony and a pool we never use. It's big enough and everything is new and we finally have that bookcase from IKEA that I've always wanted. This is the apartment we have as an engaged couple, and it's the first place we'll live as newlyweds. What other defining moments (other than that impending Minnesota winter) will occur while we live under this roof, I don't know yet. But I'll look back one day and see it from the future, and I'll tell you what this place was like and what it means to us because of that.

After a year apart, I forgot that living together is something Rob and I have done before--the norm, really. We've left little parts of ourselves places and picked up and taken things with us, and now we're here, together (again).

My sweet friend Emily got married this weekend in Richmond, and I felt overwhelmed with gratitude that she invited me and Rob to be there to see it. Emily and I were both English majors at Longwood, and didn't really get to know one another until after I graduated and she was a senior. We had already been Facebook friends, but really only connected later through blogging. We started meeting for coffee whenever I was in town, and we'd talk and laugh and get teary-eyed as the hours passed and our lattes got cold and we got really serious about life and marriage and God and Harry Potter and politics.

And then one morning, I was in Farmville for the weekend, getting up early to see her present her senior seminar paper on The Bell Jar, and as she spoke with passion and excitement and answered questions about her topic in front of the room, I realized that she and I were actually real friends, and again I felt overwhelmed. How sweet it is to find yourself in such a random, special friendship.

I started this weekend early, on Friday morning, and I drove to Longwood to visit my brother and talk to a handful of my favorite professors from undergrad. I didn't realize it until I was driving away from campus just how perfect it was for me to stop by Longwood on my way to Richmond to see Emily. Farmville, Virginia is where so many good things begin--my education, my relationship with Rob, my friendship with Emily, and her relationship with her now husband, Robbie (another Economics-studying Robert, just by the way).

I dropped my Rob off at the airport on Sunday afternoon and drove home through the rain. It was warm and grey outside, and when the rain stopped the sun came out, and I rolled down the windows of my car. I've been having a really rough time lately. I've been sad and overwhelmed and negative a lot of the time. But seeing Emily this weekend reminded me that I can be positively intentional about a lot of my life. So as I drove, in the middle of my musings about spring; and my fond memories of college; and the thought of our bright, prosperous futures with the people we love the most; I took a deep breath from the cool, wet air outside and smiled.

I was thinking about love the other day--the non-glamorous, difficult side of things that is so far removed from the weddings we love and re-post photos from on Pinterest. 

I thought about how simple, good communication is worth its weight in gold, and I thought about the nights that you will cry about bathroom rugs or furniture, or maybe go to bed angry but hold hands anyway because you love each other even when one of you is being an asshole, and the promise that's there even when the passion maybe won't be. 

And it's this--navigating the hard stuff and making it through not-so-glamorous times--that actually feels more magical to me than a bouquet of peach roses with baby's breath poking out, or mason jars wrapped in lace.