A Love Letter to Acworth

I moved here five years ago. I had outgrown my old life and was looking for something different. At first, I thought Acworth looked like all the other communities springing up around me—but that’s not what I found.

What I found was a place I fell in love with.

It didn’t happen overnight.

This town was far enough away from my old life to feel new. That life had been good, but it no longer fit like it used to. I just needed a change—though I still wanted to be close enough to keep working a job I loved. I tried to bring the good parts of my old life with me, but not everything stuck. And for the first time in my life, I found myself completely alone. The old no longer worked, and I hadn’t yet discovered the new. I didn’t even know what the new looked like.

But I’ve always been curious.

I wanted to know everything about this place I now called home.

So over the past five years, I’ve driven down nearly every street. I looked at every house—some so elegant I’d sit and imagine the grandeur, the laughter, the love, the pain, the sorrow—the lives that had passed through them. And some homes were more modest. But whether grand or simple, the stories behind their walls weren’t so different.

This community has shifted like a chameleon. It’s been a mill town, then a beach town, and now it seems to be finding its new face—for me, one rooted in connection.

One day while wandering downtown, I stumbled across the most beautiful manhole covers—adorned with fish. So cool. I found Lacey Drugs, a family-owned pharmacy. I thought, This is where I’ll go. A place where I’m not just a number. I’m still not quite a name yet, but they recognize me. I’m not a frequent flyer—but I’m working on it.

And if you haven’t checked out Trisha’s class at CK Yoga down in the old dance studio, you haven’t gotten your dose of feel-good energy. Trisha, with her infectious laugh, makes you feel welcome.

When I first moved to Georgia 30 years ago, I came with hope—me, my ex-husband, and our baby girls. I wanted to go to the Piggly Wiggly just so I could say I did—like in Driving Miss Daisy. And I did. My mom wasn’t thrilled about Georgia at first, but she came to love it. It had seasons, great schools, and it wasn’t too far from her in Florida. Georgia became home. Acworth became home—first in 30102, and later in 30101.

I’m proud—proud to call Georgia home, proud to have been an art educator, and proud now to be part of this town.

This summer, instead of traveling, I made a different choice. I decided I wanted to fall in love with the life I’d always dreamed of. I loved my house. I loved my job. I loved the people in my life—but something still felt incomplete. I couldn’t quite define what I was looking for, but I knew I was raised in a neighborhood, not a subdivision. I missed that sense of belonging.

So I made it my mission to get to know my neighborhood.

I took walks with my puppies. Then with the little girl next door. One day, she and I even wandered into the woods together. I used to do that all the time as a child, but as an adult, I found myself strangely hesitant. Still, I went. And then I sat in my chair and watched as the deer came. I noticed the mamas would bring their babies. After a while, the mamas would disappear, and only the babies would remain.

Maybe the mamas were saying, This is a safe place. A good place to begin before stepping into the big world.

This summer, I decided to face my fears—especially the fear of truly getting to know people. That might sound funny if you knew me. My kids like to say I could talk to a wall. But I wanted something deeper. Real connection.

So I made this summer about being raw. About being me. All of me.

I invited my neighbors to a block party. The only people I really knew were the kind family next door. I had their number, and I knew I could text them if something came up. I also had the number for the folks across the street. But beyond that? I didn’t really know anyone.

So the little girl next door and I walked house to house, knocking on doors. If no one answered, we left flyers tucked where they’d be seen.

Two weeks later, the day of the party arrived. My neighbor assured me at least five families would come.

There were no RSVPs—just faith.

I reached out to a friend from work, hoping her church had pulled pork to sell. They didn’t—but her husband offered to make some anyway. And when I tried to pay, he refused. He said it was his way of paying it forward, of being the way Jesus taught him to be.

The day of the party, all my old event-planning instincts came rushing in—but this time, they didn’t feel right. This wasn’t about perfection. This wasn’t about putting on airs.

This was about showing up.

And of course, just before it started, the skies opened up. Rain. I stood there thinking, Okay God, I trust you. If no one comes, I’ll freeze the pork. I’ll figure it out.

But they came.

They really came.

And my heart filled.

I met neighbors I’d never seen before. We talked. We laughed. We shared food and stories. We learned a little about each other.

Now we’re planning a fall get-together—roasting hot dogs and s’mores. Maybe I’ll have to introduce them to a little good old-fashioned New England mulled cider. Nothing fancy. No assignments. No RSVPs. Just bring yourself and something to share. The only menu: presence over perfection.

That day, I saw the heart of this place.

It wasn’t just the lake or the parks or the playgrounds or the charming homes.

It was the people.

And that day, Acworth truly became home.

Not just the place I lived—but the place I belonged.

© MaryJo Mulvey 2025. All rights reserved.