We ask questions to understand the world around us. But what about the questions we ask ourselves? The ones that cut through the noise and lead us straight to truth? The ones that help us see what's been driving us all along, just outside our conscious awareness?

The unconscious is running the show. Until we're willing to shine light into those darker corners of ourselves, we remain captive to the stories we think we're supposed to tell, rather than the truths we're actually holding deep within.

I've been thinking about query as a tool for exactly this kind of illumination, particularly in light of the revelation I had back in August just before moving here to Montana: love over location.

It's funny how comfortable we are with certain stories about big moves. Moving for the mountains? Of course. For a job opportunity? Makes perfect sense. We love these tangible, provable reasons - they fit neatly into boxes we can label and understand.

And part of me wanted this to be that kind of story about Montana - like my love affair with Michigan all over again. My Michigan journey was a true love story. I'm in that land, and it's in me. Even thinking about it now I feel my insides light up. It's home. It is my home. (Even though technically Ohio is). 

But this isn't that story.

The truth – the one I've only whispered in late-night conversations with my closest girlfriends, in those sacred spaces where shadows are allowed into the light – is both simpler and more profound:

I want real, soul-expanding, life-altering love.

There it is. The truth I've been dancing around, the one I've felt somehow ashamed to own fully. Behind all my conscious narrative about seeking a place dominant in nature, behind all the perfectly reasonable explanations about wanting new experiences and stimuli, behind all the talk about learning and growing... there was this:

I want the kind of love that breaks you open and puts you back together bigger. The kind that expands your soul's capacity for joy and wonder and becoming. The kind that doesn't diminish who you are but rather catalyzes who you're meant to be.

And yes, I held a belief that he's not in Ohio. Unfair? Short-sighted? Possibly. Probably. But beliefs shape our reality, and this one has shaped mine into movement. Not because my person couldn't possibly be there, but because something in my soul keeps whispering "elsewhere" when I think about where this love might be waiting.

The whole truth includes the part I've been keeping in shadow: that this move isn't just about place, and it isn't just about running from something. It's about actively moving toward the kind of love I know is possible. The kind that matches the wildness and magic I found in Michigan's landscape, but in human form. The kind that feels like coming home to yourself through coming home to another.

That 10th day of August, in that cabin here in Montana, when the truth came through me and out of me into the brightest light, I became very clear about something else too: as long as I was in a place dominant in nature, it wouldn't matter to me where I ended up. What would matter was who I would be with, as we built our life together.

But here's another truth that needed to be integrated: any move I made had to be one I could fully own as single Jenn. Any plan had to be viable, fulfilling, and complete without partnership. Because there's a vast difference between moving toward love and moving from need. Between creating space for partnership and becoming dependent on finding it.

So I approached this with the same sovereignty that has marked my entire journey. Yes, I'm moving toward the possibility of soul-expanding love. AND I'm choosing each step based on how it serves me, right now, as I am.

This is where Montana enters the story - not as a guaranteed path to partnership, but as a place that called forth a version of me I deeply resonated with. When I visited different areas, I paid attention not just to the landscape or the community, but to who I became in each place. You see, places have a way of eliciting different aspects of ourselves. Bozeman brought out one version of Jenn. But this part of Montana? Here, I met Michigan Jenn again - only more evolved.

I had crafted such a bulletproof plan. Any blind spots or dreaminess had been carefully eradicated and replaced with grounded reality. I'd made sure this would be a journey I'd be completely happy with on my own. I'd done all the "right" things to maintain my sovereignty. So why, then, did shame around this central desire remain?

As I queried deeper into the shame around love being my central desire, I found myself back at an original wound – but let's be honest, who doesn't have one of those? Life would be pretty boring without these early challenges lighting the fire of exploration and journey. It's all part of the game, really.

In my case, the game piece I drew was this: my love has always been "a lot" for people around me. In my family, softness, kindness, and expressiveness of love were seen as weaknesses. And in the denial of their own softness, they had to reject mine. You know, patterns. Cause and effect.

These weren't false stories – they were true ones that happened to make excellent armor. And hey, they gave me some pretty great plot points along the way: seeking nature, seeking adventure, seeking growth. You can't write a hero's journey without some complications, right?

But here's what query helped me see, with a kind of amused clarity: my capacity for deep, expansive love isn't a flaw. It's a gift. A superpower. A truth so fundamental to who I am that trying to diminish it only diminishes me. And my desire for partnership isn't separate from this – it's an extension of it. A natural expression of a heart that has always known how to love boldly.

Sometimes what we think are our deepest wounds turn out to be our most interesting plot points. Sometimes what starts as rejection becomes the very thing that launches us into our most meaningful adventures. And sometimes we look back at all of it – the patterns, the impressions, the cause and effect – not with pain, but with appreciation for how it all led us here.

Love over location isn't just about geography. It's about finally seeing the humor in how hard we've worked to make ourselves smaller. It's about appreciating the elaborate narratives we've constructed while knowing it's time to write a new story. One where loving deeply isn't a flaw but a feature. One where wanting partnership isn't something to whisper about, but something to claim with a smile and a shrug because hey – that's just part of this wild game of life too.

Even as I write this, I feel a flutter of fear in my chest. A sheepish hesitation. The early whispers of what will surely become a vulnerability hangover. And it makes me wonder: why are we so afraid to admit what we want when it comes to love? We clearly all want it. It's wired into our DNA - a biological imperative as natural as breathing.

Love over location.

Not as a rejection of place, but as an honest acknowledgment of priority. Not as a denial of the importance of nature, but as an integration of all my truths. Not as something to whisper about in shadow, but as something to claim in broad daylight.