The Girl Who Never Unpacked
(a barefoot hippie’s field notes on home, hunger, and motion)
Barefoot on Purpose
Deep down, I’m a hippie girl. Barefoot. No bra. No makeup. No permanent address. The first eleven years trained me for it—moving every year or two with my mother, never letting the boxes learn our names. I didn’t know it then, but that rhythm made me brave. When I’m the one choosing, I choose to go. Wanderlust doesn’t ask permission; it takes my hand.
Colorado: A-Frame Baptism
An A-frame with no electricity and a stubborn outhouse, pines skinny at the ankles and cathedral-tall up top. I’m small and sun-warmed in a hammock strung between two trunks, the air cool and still, sky big enough to live under my skin. It was the first time peace didn’t depend on people—just weather, trees, and an exhale.
And then nature called—the glamorous part of off-grid nobody puts on postcards.
Winnipeg: Free-Love & First Pierogies
Open field, tents like bright mushrooms, adults making brave and bad decisions in equal measure. I don’t remember the bands; I remember the pierogi truck. Steam unfurling into cold air, butter running hot over my knuckles, soft-chewy dough with a crisp sear—potato and sour cream like a hug from the inside. There’s a photo of me peeling sunburn from a woman named Linda. I don’t remember Linda—only the feeling that my childhood wasn’t standard issue, and my body felt weirdly free.
And then the sky dumped a lake on us and everything turned to mud—tents, hair, dreams, all of it.
Grand Forks: Ice Cities & Hotel Pools
I went to sleep in Fairborn, Ohio, and woke up in a van in Grand Forks, North Dakota. Door slides open—whoosh—wall of cold air and a world made of snow. Later, UND lawns sprouted glittering ice cities taller than houses, and I learned to self-parent in small ways: find the hotel pool, find the arcade, get yourself home before dark. Freedom felt like keys I could borrow whenever I wanted.
And then my memory keeps a handful of scenes I never asked for; you tilt your head at them and keep walking.
The Marsha Years: Improvised Survival
Sunbathing places sunlight doesn’t usually visit to “cure poison ivy.” A royal-blue wagon with a towel over the gas pedal because driving barefoot scorched her sole. Me, small but sturdy, flying alone to visit my dad. Back then I wanted roots so badly it hurt. When I moved in with my dad at eleven, I finally got them—and I buried the itch to move, not realizing it was only napping.
Ormond with Dad: What Home Looks Like on a Face
Florida became our compass. Ormond Beach, same week every year, same breakfast place that knew his coffee, same sandy shortcuts he loved to show off. My favorite part wasn’t the ocean; it was watching freedom land on my dad’s face. That’s how I learned what home looks like on a person.
And then life pivoted hard—divorce, distance, and then his absence stretching longer than any road.
Broke Mama, Big Miles
Motherhood didn’t end the impulse; it sharpened it. I was a broke single mom who needed the ocean like oxygen and got good at making “impossible” wiggle. One trip, a friend and I patched a week together with duct tape and joy—drive down, swap flights, drive back with kids and sunburns.
And then halfway home I remembered my stash in the medicine cabinet—at a hotel where my dad knew everyone. Perfect.
Say the Word Florida
My sister and I sat on gritty brown “beach,” said Florida at the same time. Two unemployed girls, three kids, zero plan. I begged an advance; we pointed the car south. Twenty-four hours later, we were in Ormond living the picture we’d just described.
And then at 3 a.m. in downtown Atlanta we got pulled over for a dead license-plate bulb. If that’s the headline, we did great.
Gate-Nap to Fort Myers: The Crown Jewel
A friend’s life blew up; she hit my doorstep whispering, “Anywhere. Now.” We drove to the Dayton airport and vowed to take the next flight out. It was to… somewhere in Wisconsin. We passed. Fort Myers had one in seven hours. Target for swimsuits, toothbrushes, one shared bag; she slept at the gate while I guarded our stuff like a dragon. Sunrise landing, eight hours of winter sun punishing Ohio skin, dinner, home. Short. Sweet. Exactly enough.
And then the floor dropped out at arrivals: a custody ambush you can’t pay off in miles.
Luxury Era: First-Class Problems (and Joy)
I married someone who loved leaving as much as I did and met my other addiction: luxury travel. We flew more than we drove; we left the country more than we stayed. Five cruises. Mexico. Paris—Eiffel wind in my hair, a café where I ate snails and pretended I understood the conversations, the Mona Lisa smaller than my hunger to be there. Hawaii—first class, the only way I want to know a red-eye. Brazil’s Amazon—black-river swims, pink dolphins, a shady photo-op with a sloth and a snake I still feel guilty about. We stitched “dual vacations” together: New York then a cruise to Canada; New Orleans then a cruise to Mexico.
And then the ridiculous detours: a Manhattan “business party” that was 90% vodka, a spontaneous first-class Vegas weekend because… why not.
Rebel Christmas: Mother & Daughter, Unleashed
During my divorce, my daughter and I did Christmas in Florida—Waffle House at midnight, a $25 tequila shot, and “drinking around the world” at Epcot like it was a sport. The fireworks over the castle looked like applause just for us.
And then the marriage ended. The Africa safari fund—Giraffe Manor and everything—became the check that paid off the house. Ten years off a mortgage; one scrapbook page left blank.
Aftermath: Choosing the Barefoot Girl
Seven months later I took my first solo trip—Daytona, obviously. Alone in motion felt quiet in the best way. After that, I said yes to small invitations: a “come down” call from Bonita Springs (on a plane three hours later, feet in sand an hour after landing), New Year’s in Destin because snow shouldn’t get the last word, a travel-nurse contract in Fort Lauderdale that ended early while I stayed anyway—Instacart by day, sun therapy by afternoon, healing without permission slips.
And then I moved to Georgia and imagined I’d fly constantly without the cursed Atlanta connection—and only flew out once. Plans are adorable like that.
Florida Now: Portside Pulse
Now I wake up where people vacation. There’s a port an hour away and my bones hum when a ship horn carries. Two cruises this year already (read “The Cruise Where I Stopped Waiting To Die”), another next month, one for my birthday because future-me deserves a balcony. After a couple weeks on land I get itchy and start searching for nonsense—New York just for dinner at a place that (surprise) closed nine years ago, Vegas lunch with a new friend that dies when I see the fare. I flew first class enough times that my body thinks aluminum tubes owe me champagne. A friend once flew budget while I flew bubbles; we landed in the same place and laughed anyway.
And then I remember what’s true: you can take the girl out of the good life, but you cannot wrestle the good life out of the girl.
Home Is a Face You Wear
I didn’t outgrow the barefoot, no-bra, no-makeup, no-address kid. I became the adult who can finally choose her. When it’s my decision, I decide to move—to keep finding proof that home isn’t an address; it’s a feeling that shows up on your face.
Share with me
If you could pop anywhere for a day—up, down, over—where would you land, and what’s the one thing you’d have to do before the sun set? Drop your 24-hour dream trip in the comments. I’ll bring the carry-on. You bring the why.
