How I made it from a Post American Territory to Small Town USA - A redemption story.

I’m a Yankee — a Good Yankee, but a Yankee nonetheless. I grew up in Baltimore, Maryland. Growing up, I was blessed with a typical ’90s middle-class childhood. My dad worked in hotels until he was laid off and started his own business. My mom worked at my elementary school, so we had good insurance, and I played outside until the streetlights came on in my little townhouse community.

Even though we lived just 15 minutes from one of America’s most dangerous cities, as a child I existed in a relatively safe bubble. As I got older, hit puberty, and learned more about the world, I began to see the cracks in my community. Girls were getting pregnant in middle school (yes, girlS, plural). There were constant fights. The once-safe world I knew started shrinking. I knew that wasn’t where I wanted to end up.

Eventually, we left and moved to a nicer neighborhood in a better part of Baltimore County. My mom inherited some money — which, in places like Maryland, can be the key to everything. I rode horses, went to Catholic school, and lived in a beautifully remodeled home. I saw what “the good life” looked like… until it all came crashing down during my first year of college.

My father was diagnosed with lung cancer that had already spread throughout his body. Within three months, he was gone.

We went from a nice home to a condo. I dropped out of school — but not before developing a nasty opioid addiction (it was Baltimore, during the height of the Purdue Pharma Oxy crisis — of course I did). Those events sent me down a path where I spent a lot of time in some of the most dangerous areas of the city. I saw firsthand the destruction that comes from bad policy, broken systems, and elites who care more about ideology than people.

For years, I did whatever I had to for money alongside my high school boyfriend, who had developed a substance disorder of his own. We moved from pills to heroin, and that led to personal destruction. I stole. I was arrested. I went to rehab. I relapsed. I danced (and no, not ballet). I lost my self-esteem and my sense of morality. I got clean and fell back again — over and over. I married that addict boyfriend. We lived in denial. I worked in restaurants, bouncing between sobriety and addiction.

But God had bigger plans for me.

I eventually reached a point where I could surrender, and God sent me an angel. I made a friend who became my boyfriend. This didn’t happen lightly. I was still married to another addict, stuck in a deeply toxic relationship. I was a mess, but I had an overwhelming feeling that I needed to pursue a future with this man, no matter the cost.

Soon after, I found out I was pregnant — which shocked us both. He had leukemia and a bone marrow transplant 20 years earlier and had been told he would never have children because of the treatments. But there we were.

We needed a fresh start.

I was still legally married and deep in chaos, but we bought bus tickets and moved to a small town in South Carolina. I didn’t care where we were going — only that it felt like the path God wanted for me. With every mile on that long bus ride, I felt the weight lifting from my shoulders.

When we arrived, I got the extra help I needed, and God removed the compulsion to use drugs and alcohol and provided me with the purpose of a wife and mother. My husband found a job he could walk to. Within months, we were renting a small two-bedroom home on just his income. I went into labor during the move, hid it so my child would have a nice place to come home to, and gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

I got divorced. We got married. Soon after, we had a baby girl. Owning a home felt impossible for people like us, but with help from my mom and COVID-era financial assistance, we bought a house in the cutest little blue-collar town. Main Street felt like Mayberry. Home prices hadn’t exploded yet, and interest rates were still around 3%.

Against all odds — including the ones I stacked against myself — I found my American Dream. For a long time, I didn’t feel like I deserved it. But it felt like heaven on earth.

Then COVID happened.

Mass migration from northeastern cities — places hollowed out by bad policy and poor leadership — flooded into smaller, cheaper towns like ours. We had moved before COVID and watched the change happen in real time. Suddenly, we met more people from Maryland, New Jersey, and New York than locals. Realtors were everywhere. Local policy shifted away from protecting the people who built the town and toward chasing development dollars.

Right after we bought our home, our property taxes jumped from $500 to $1,500 — well beyond what felt reasonable. Flash-forward to present day and those same taxes have surpassed 2,000 dollars.

I’m telling you this story to make a point.

Organic growth is okay. People moving to find a better life is part of the American story. But crony capitalism and intentionally driving explosive growth to change the demographics and economics of an area is not okay. COVID created an opportunity for the greedy to cash in.

Our town was already growing. It didn’t need to be flipped for profit. Small towns are special because they’re small. Take away the “small,” and you’re left with another crowded, expensive place where only the wealthy can afford to live the American Dream.