If My Life Was a Hallmark Movie: Part 1

For these “stories” I’m going to give the actual story of the trip/experience and then have the fictional delusional version… or as I would say the “Hallmark version” right after it.  a little twist.. because why not have some fun when we are writing.  That’s the whole point as a writer .. take life and experiences and then create something fun.  Different from my usual rollercoaster journey blogs. 

Disclaimer: I’ll admit.. I’m definitely one of those girlies.. who will watch a hallmark movie even though the plot line was the same as the last seven, I watched.  I myself love them, and will watch them alone, with my mom, with my aunts, with my cousins.   I’m also definitely one of the girls who reads through those fictional love books in less than two days because I’m addicted.. obsessed with the fictional story line.  The story lines, the slow love.. “the come on already get together”.. to the wowww that description is soo spicy!

This is the kind of story Hallmark would tell—the kind we roll our eyes at but secretly hope might still be possible. Because we live in a time when the most romantic thing we experience is a like on our Instagram story or a late-night DM. And then, on the rare occasion, you meet a man who opens your door, plans a real date, and actually takes you out—all before you sleep together.

We live in a time when bodies touching bodies feels more important than building an actual connection. Lust over longevity. Convenience over honesty.

Cringy love.

Sappy feelings.

Delusional hope.

Stories that make you smile in disbelief, laugh at your own heart, and wonder why you still believe in something that could never happen—yet wish, quietly, that it would.

It always starts the same way: a quiet little town you only find if you’re meant to.

Story 1: The Move

Uncasville, Connecticut.

Uncasville isn’t just a dot on a map. It’s one of the villages that make up Montville;  a town incorporated in 1786 but rooted in stories much older than that. Long before farms and mills lined the Oxoboxo River, this land belonged to the Mohegan people.

Small towns are like that.  Layered. Historic. Full of Soul.

You know the kind.. where everyone in your family went to the same high school. Your mom. Your dad. Aunts, uncles, cousins (some of them). Where your grandmother even worked in the school office and your grandfather taught woodshop and coached baseball.

In small towns, memories don’t disappear. They just get reassigned. And no matter how far you drive; how many states you cross, how many time zones you adjust to; somehow every road still leads you back. Because towns like this don’t really let you go.

After twenty-nine years on the East Coast, I decided it was time to test that theory.

With one phone interview and a quick visit to Santa Barbara, California, I packed up my life and moved 3,000 miles away.

New state. New job. New version of me.

The first week, I slept in a motel. The first piece of furniture I bought was a futon. The only thing I owned that felt stable was my air mattress.

And then COVID hit.

The job I moved for disappeared almost as quickly as I had. So there I was  3,000 miles from home, no friends nearby, jobless, wondering if maybe small towns don’t let you go because they’re right about you.

I had options:

• Find something new.

• Pray for the old job to come back.

• Or Move home.

Option three felt like defeat. I had barely started.

So I decided to stay no matter what.

I found another job. A better one, actually (no offense to the first one). I found an apartment. I found hiking trails and beaches and confidence I didn’t know I had. I did everything alone at first:  grocery stores, farmers markets, restaurants, exploring new towns.  And eventually, I even made friends. Real ones.

And somewhere between surviving and thriving, California stopped feeling temporary. Ironically, I ended up in Ventura; a place my family technically started. You know "the East coast boy, meets the West coast girl.” Even 3,000 miles away, I had somehow landed near my roots. I guess you can say the universe has a sense of humor.

For two and a half years, I built a life there. I worked. I hiked. I explored. I hosted visitors. I became someone a little braver than the girl who started on an air mattress.

And then, slowly, the pull shifted.

I moved back East. Remote job intact, and forgetting one crucial detail about New England: winter. Not “throw on a hoodie” type of winter. Real winter. Snow. Ice. Below-40-degrees winter.

So naturally, instead of facing it like an adult, I decided to try Florida. Why not become a snowbird for a season? Test another version of life.

I made it about six months. Somewhere in that stretch, the fabulous California job ended. 

Again, options appeared:

• Find another job.

• Go home. really home and build something of my own.

This time, moving back didn’t feel like losing. It felt like choosing.

So I packed up, again and returned to Montville, Connecticut. 

Remember when I said every road leads you home? Turns out I took that literally.

Now, here’s the Hallmark twist.

I’m a business owner. I work part-time at the local hardware store as an office manager/admin, which basically means I know where to find stuff in an office, how and where to click around an excel sheet.  I’m also the head coach of a girls’ soccer team at the private high school in town.   

Full circle doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I’m back in the town where my entire family is known. Where being a “townie” isn’t an insult, I’d say it’s more of an identity.

And this is where a Hallmark producer would clear their throat.

Because what’s a story about a girl who leaves her small town, finds herself, loses the big job, and moves home… without a man walking into a hardware store?

Except, in my version, I wouldn’t be downstairs greeting customers. I work upstairs. There are two of us who run the office but we work opposite days. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are hers. Tuesdays and Thursdays are mine.

Which means, of course, if this were a Hallmark movie, he would walk in on a Tuesday (…or a Thursday).

I hear the chatter downstairs before I even glance out the window. The guys are jokesters, always teasing, always noticing things.

I roll my chair back, bring the bucket up to pull out all of its contents; receipts to file and a folder of the day’s work,  just so I can drop in today’s checks to sign, the usual.

Slowly, I lower it down toward the counter.

He’s standing near the guys, discussing some old hinge like it’s a relic. Not a local. Definitely an occasional. He glances up just as the folder descends. I lean slightly out the window.

“Checks to sign in the bucket,” I call down.

He smiles, awkward and intrigued, and just like that, the quiet Tuesday afternoon feels like something more.

And just like that, the girl who left; who slept in motels, tested winters, chased coasts — becomes the expert observer. (Temporarily… okay, momentarily… for the Hallmark version, duh.)

But because this is my delusional Hallmark version, that’s not all.

There’s also a concert at the casino that weekend. My favorite single country music star is in town for one night only. 

Tour buses, lights, energy. A reminder of the road I once chased.

And of course, something on the tour bus breaks.

It’s always something random. A blown fuse. A heavy-duty extension cord that absolutely cannot wait until the next city. 

The guys in the store wouldn’t react, he’s just another guy in a baseball hat or maybe a cowboy hat, which would absolutely earn him a few jokes, asking for something oddly specific.  

Although, let’s be honest, a man who looks like that walking into this store would stick out. And then add the tour bus parked outside.  But still, Downstairs, one of the guys says, “Are you looking for anything specific, what can we help you find?”

I hear it like I hear every customer interaction.  But this time, i hear His voice.

And my brain goes: wait.. am I dreaming.. is that.. no it couldn’t be. 

Not through a speaker.

Not through my car stereo.

Not through headphones.

My stomach does that annoying little drop. They really probably only know one of his songs because I made them played it once for me.

There’s a pause. And one of them yells up to me: “Hey! Isn’t this your boyfriend?”

Another one joins in: “Thought you said the man of your dreams would walk through that door one day!”

Silence. I freeze.

Because technically… he just did.

I roll my chair back slowly. Bring the bucket up. Swap the paperwork. 

And think business as usual. I lower it down. And that’s when he looks up. Our eyes meet.

And in true Hallmark fashion, it lingers half a second longer than necessary; and if you seen one you know exactly what I mean. You can cringe now. 

Not dramatic.

Not fireworks. 

Just curiosity.

Like he’s trying to place why the girl in the upstairs window suddenly looks like she’s holding a secret. Like he’s trying to figure me out in that half second stare. 

He smiles; not like a stage smile, or a fan interaction smile,  just I guess amused (I mean I am the weirdo staring down out of a window in hardware store with a pulley bucket).

…And if this were a Hallmark movie, this is the part where he asks my name.

Love at first sight? Maybe in the delusional version.

In reality?  He buys the extension cord. He thanks the guys. He Tips his hat to me and He walks out the door.

Back to his Tour bus. Back to the casino stage.  

As for me? I’m still upstairs. Pretending my heart rate is normal.  Because sometimes the life you once romanticized walks straight through your front door…

And the universe lets you decide whether it’s a sign Or just a really good story.

Now I’m upstairs, distracted in my own thoughts. Choosing. Observing. Sitting back at my desk, calculating which version of life I want.   

Because sometimes, the person who tried hardest to leave is the one who understands home the most.

Random Occasional Hardware guy is steady. Rooted. Real.

Country star is temporary. Flashy. Passing through.

And whether either of them stick around…Well I guess, that depends on which version of the story we’re telling. 

xoxo, Berkeley