Throughout my life, I’ve moved from one place to another, each shift reflecting my evolving aspirations. In Seattle, during the grunge phenomenon, I sported purple hair while pursuing a degree in the music industry. Then there was Burbank, California, where I dabbled in film production as an intern, getting accustomed to the relentless sunshine and my impeccably polished colleagues. Maine saw me with short burgundy hair, working as a barista before eventually landing a communications role with a local hockey team. Whenever boredom, fear, or melancholy struck, I would reinvent myself, desperately seeking a way to channel my many creative passions into a fulfilling existence.
By my mid-20s, I began to settle down. Perhaps it was the onset of a biological clock or sheer exhaustion from constant relocating, but I started gathering candles and picture frames that caught my eye in flea markets and at Cost Plus World Market. I envisioned a cozy home somewhere, with candlelight dancing off the tiny mirrors of my embroidered purple throw pillows. Whether it was a loft in Oregon, a cabin in the Washington woods, or a Victorian carriage house in New England, my desire was for something small, unique, and tranquil.
Fast forward fifteen years, and I find myself in a spacious suburban home with my husband and our two children. Since our marriage, we’ve upgraded our living space twice, most recently just over a year ago. Those cardboard boxes I once dragged across the country are long gone, replaced by the accumulation of our lives: remnants of birthday parties, our children’s art projects, dusty books, and, in the still-sealed boxes gathering dust in the basement, the jewel-toned Moroccan lanterns that belonged to my former, more bohemian self.
We reside on a cul-de-sac and have no plans to move again until our kids are grown. We are rooted.
Yet, amid the chill of a harsh Maine winter, I often feel weighed down by the suburban life we’ve embraced. Our calendar is filled to the brim with dentist appointments and our son’s taekwondo lessons. The attractive but conventional celery-colored walls and practical beige carpets serve as a stark reminder of our settled existence. While our children benefit from a stellar school system and lead stable lives, I occasionally lament the weight of this lifestyle. It feels as if our roots are digging deeper into the earth.
Looking back at my younger, more transient self, I’m astonished. She drifted from place to place as if carried by an enchanting breeze, leaving behind friends, family, jobs, and schools. She embodied freedom, with a life unencumbered and buoyant.
Of course, we could still uproot ourselves. We could downsize or even, as I sometimes daydream, sell everything and whisk our kids off to Spain for a season. We could reinvent ourselves every few years like Madonna—or like I did in my youth.
And perhaps we will. I continue to surprise myself. Last spring, I tried hot yoga as a nod to my 40th birthday and found solace in the way my mind quieted while my body became flexible and slick with sweat. I’ve transitioned from an aspiring writer to a published one, achieving a lifelong dream. Recently, I’ve embraced running and meditation. Even as we remain anchored, we stretch and adapt, striving not to become too set in our ways, even as parts of us appreciate the conventional lives we’ve chosen.
What I might truly be yearning for is not merely change or freedom, but the reassurance that I could flit away and recreate my life elsewhere when challenges arise. Because, let’s face it, life gets hard—when I receive an email about my son’s behavior at school, when the property tax bill lands in my mailbox, or when I worry about another health issue cropping up for my parents.
The life of that nomadic girl may have seemed more thrilling than my current one, but she wasn’t particularly happy. I possess much of what she sought: a creative career, a loving partner, wonderful children, and supportive friends. Plus, I have something she didn’t realize she craved—the strength to remain grounded when times get tough or mundane. My life is no longer terrifyingly open-ended.
The challenge, I suppose, is to stay grounded yet not confined. To be planted while allowing space to sway and adapt. It’s essential to remember that this bustling season of life, which sometimes feels constraining and entrenched, is the life I wanted.