Yesterday, while scrolling through Instagram, I saw a post from Visit Rapid City. I froze, mid-swipe.
The caption read, “From our camera roll to yours.” That was it. But I didn’t need any more context. The first photo was a gazebo on a small island in a lake. The next was a rushing creek framed by golden leaves. I knew that creek. I knew that gazebo

It was Canyon Lake Park.

For three years, I lived across the street from that park. I watched fish dart through the lake, eagles swoop down for a catch, and memorized the rhythm of the creek. When my parents came to visit, my dad would fly-fish while my mom and I pushed my oldest son in a stroller along the lakeside path.

Idyllic isn’t a strong enough word to describe the slice of paradise that house just steps from Canyon Lake Park was to me. After years of military moves and disagreeing on where we envisioned spending the rest of our lives, my husband and I thought we’d finally found our place. This would be the home we returned to when military life was in the rearview mirror.
When we received orders back to Minot in 2019, we rented our Rapid City house because we planned to return as soon as possible. Derek would separate from active duty, and we’d build a civilian life there—complete with pumpkins on the porch and Christmas breakfast in the kitchen overlooking the creek.

But that never happened.

Doors didn’t open. Jobs didn’t align. Keeping the house became stressful and expensive, and after one final nightmare renter, we knew it was time to let go. We were living with one foot in a dream, and one foot in reality—unable to fully embrace either.

Our final trip to that house was in late October. My boys—just four and two—threw rocks into the creek while I watched the light filter through the leaves. It was exactly what I had imagined. Exactly the view I wanted. And I knew it was over.
Selling that house meant saying goodbye to more than a property. It meant releasing the future I hoped for, friendships, and the version of life I had imagined so vividly that it felt tangible.

So, when images of Canyon Lake Park came across my feed, a rush of memories followed. The sound of water. The smell of autumn leaves. The sense of sanctuary. My heart ached with the kind of longing that only comes when you miss not just a place, but a time in your life, and an unmet desire.

I shared the photos on my Instagram stories and wrote, “I love Minot. But I used to live across from this park, and when I see these views, my heart hurts because I miss it so much. I just want you to know—you can love where you are and still grieve what was. Both realities are honest. Both are true. I just hope you’ll spend more time seeing the beauty of reality than the grief of what could have been. I dreamed of growing old to the sound of this creek. But it’s okay for dreams to change. Most of all, it’s okay to remember that even if it wasn’t forever how you hoped, that doesn’t erase that it happened—or how good it was.”

Messages poured in from people who said it was exactly what they needed to hear.

Because here’s the truth: you can be love where you are and still mourn an unrealized dream. Military families don’t just cope with the grief of moves, deployments, and separations. We’ve also got to grieve the death of dreams and visions of the future. This type of death is deeply painful.

And I don’t think we talk about that enough.

It’s easy to believe that contentment and grief can’t coexist. That to be fully present and content in the moment means you don’t miss what could have been. But the human heart is complex. We can carry both. And when we do, life feels deeper and richer.

Letting go of that dream in Rapid City hurt. But it also made room for something else—joy here in Minot like I never expected. It made space for friendships, purpose, and a kind of peace that comes from embracing the life I actually have, not the one I imagined.

I miss that place. I always will. But I’m deeply thankful for where I am now. Because, as cliché as it sounds, letting go isn’t always the end of the story—it’s the beginning of a new one.

For more reflections on North Dakota living, visit amyallender.com or find Amy on social media @HeyMinot.