Why I Chose Daytona
A story about sand, soul, and finally feeling like myself
The day I couldn’t write
I was sitting at my desk, staring out the window at my spectacular view, trying to write this blog. My head was spinning with all the things I wanted to say and hope you feel. I started feeling frazzled and chaotic, not being able to get a handle on things.
So I went to my happy place.
There is a calm that comes over me when I am at the beach. Like everything is swirling and spinning, but when I pull up and see her, things suddenly go into nice, organized files that I can sort through at a better pace, without the overwhelm.
The ocean is a whole nother planet. Entire ecosystems, hierarchies, food chains. When I look from the shore out to the horizon, all I see is water — nothing past my eye line. That is possibility. That is something new I have never seen or been before.
Her waves tease, coming in and out. I can tell her mood by the height of her waves and the color of her body. She nourishes us land lovers. She has a draw. People want to see her, live by her, live on her. She can soothe and she can punish. The moon and she run the world.
Maybe it’s because I’m an Aquarius, but the love of water feels like it has always been in me. Part of me.
Where it all began
My grandparents packed up their Airstream every fall and headed down to Brooksville, FL. I used to love helping them pack — the mini cereal boxes for Grandpa, Grandma’s armful of hair products, the smell of Old Spice in the air.
They were the cool grandparents. The ones with a winter home.
Visiting them in Florida was the highlight of my childhood. We always drove. My dad — a truck driver — still went to AAA every year to get a TripTik. A 3”x6” spiraled-at-the-top map that folded out forever. We took the same trip every year, and he didn’t need directions. But it was a staple. A ritual.
Florida was already stitched into my story.
My dad and the ocean
I didn’t ask why my dad chose Daytona. He never told me.
But I knew.
My dad was a high-stress man 351 days of the year. But when we were in Daytona, that stress fell away.
Tears come to my eyes as I close them and see him standing ankle-deep in the waves, just staring out into the horizon. There seemed to be a soul-filled sea mist coming off of him as he stood there. I could feel his connection to the sea in me.
He loved her. He was drawn to her. And that’s where he found his peace — which in turn became the same for me.
My dad, my soul, is in the ocean.
Flying into Daytona
The exact day I decided to move to Florida isn’t known. But I do know I was in the middle of a big dream of becoming a digital nomad. At the time, I was living in Georgia — a place I had no connection to and no desire to call “home.” I knew I wanted that base to be in Florida.
I had planned a month-long trip down one side of Florida into the Keys and back up through the Gulf. Driving the whole way so I could see everything. I had the first leg planned, deposits paid. For this stretch, I was going to St. Augustine and Daytona — the two places I already loved.
My ex and I had once planned to retire in St. Augustine. We were fifteen years away, but we’d already picked the condo.
I had dreamed of watching fireworks over Castillo de San Marcos on New Year’s Eve for as long as I can remember. I rented a boat on Airbnb to stay in for that trip, and even though there weren’t fireworks, the vibe was amazing. People watching at its finest. I wandered all my favorite spots. I even spent time in a church that stirred feelings I didn’t know I had.
Even though I had flown there, rented a car, and was staying in an Airbnb, I felt at home.
When I was flying into Daytona, a specific apartment building caught my eye. “That would be a cool spot to live,” I thought.
Video from flight into Daytona where I saw the perfect place to live in between the Halifax River and Atlantic Ocean
Later, I looked it up and realized it was owned by the same property management company that managed my Atlanta apartment. Which meant I could transfer my lease three months early — penalty free.
Still on that trip, I contacted the apartment manager. I picked up my keys before I even flew home.
I went back to Atlanta, grabbed my cats and my car. The moving company couldn’t come for a couple weeks and I didn’t want to wait, so I drove back. Slept on an air mattress with nothing but that and a TV for almost a month.
Being here mattered more than being with my things.
The rhythm of this city
Daytona reinvents itself every weekend.
One day it’s sleepy and peaceful, the next it’s Bike Week and you can’t hear yourself think. My first Daytona 500 wasn’t bad. My first Bike Week? Never again. Ten days of revving engines, 24/7 bridge traffic, and nonstop noise.
Jeep Beach Week, though? Those are my people. The Jeeps outnumber everything else 7:1. I drive a Cherokee, so I’m not Wrangler-cool, but I still count.
I go to the same spot every Friday night. I love watching people arrive. They leap out of their cars, stretch after the long drive, and just stand at the railing. Bright-eyed, smiling, soaking it in.
That first glimpse of the ocean is pure magic.
When you’re on vacation, you’re generally truly yourself. No dress code. No daily grind. You act freer, you try new things, you take chances. The consequences are low. Even though I live here now, I still feel that freedom — because my neighbors change every week.
Where I hear nothing
I don’t sleep well. I don’t nap. I can’t meditate. My brain always has twenty thousand thoughts, opinions, tasks — it never stops.
But when I sit on the white sand at the ocean’s edge, close my eyes, and just listen, I hear nothing. Nothing but the sound of my own voice expressing appreciation, love, loyalty, and joy for what she gives me.
It’s rare that I don’t fall asleep while laying out in the sun, even if I just got out of bed. But it’s not the sun that puts me to sleep. It’s the peace and rhythm of the crashing waves.
I must look at her every single day.
At home, when I try to create or work, I get sidelined by a cat’s needs or a plant’s needs or the call to produce physical products. My mind is either blank or swirling with nonsense.
But when I feel the sun, the wind, hear the waves, feel the sand — my brain creates significant, beautiful thoughts that move me forward.
Some days I’ve cried on the drive, craving to talk to her and have her make it better. Have her show me the possibilities in me.
And every time, I leave feeling like a new person.
Ocean Girl
She came to life after one of those nights — wrecked, restless, reassembled by the sea. Made with shells from the sand I walk daily. She’s as real as it gets.
A piece of Daytona
I love those huge souvenir stores with “Daytona Beach” or “Florida” printed on everything. People flock to them. I do too. We all want a piece of the places we’ve been.
But most of those things aren’t really from here.
My pieces are. I go to the beach, collect the shells, scoop the sand, and make something real in 32118.
I’m 58 years old and have never felt a passion for anything I did. Nothing fit. Nothing felt right. I couldn’t continue because my heart wasn’t in it.
But creating ocean-themed products — and being the truest version of myself in my blogs — has finally given me hope. A goal. A reason to live.
I used to be afraid to create, craft, try to sell my stuff. But now, here, in this city, with the beach as my office, I see endless possibilities — without the overwhelm and rush.
My life now is a never-ending vacation.
Daytona Sand Charm
A charm made with real Daytona sand and shells, collected by hand. A true souvenir of this shore, this season, this life.
This is just the start
Every blog I share this month will tie back to Daytona in some way. Some will be deep, like this one. Some will be about the fun — what to do, where to go, how this place comes alive.
Bookmark this page, come back for the next one, or sign up for my newsletter so you don’t miss it. And if you want to take a little piece of Daytona home, you can always find me on Etsy.
Mostly, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment. Tell me where your “Daytona” is — the place that makes you feel like yourself.
Thanks for being here. Yours in chaos,
Tami - Pajama Life Chronicles
