First time alone
When I was growing up, my mom worked two—sometimes three—jobs, all so she could afford to take us places. My dad had extensive back surgery that kept him from working, but with his disability checks, they made sure there was always food on the table and the bills were paid.
And then there were the trips.
Six kids—sometimes more, because my brothers’ friends would join us—two adults, and the open road. Most of us were homeschooled, and for the ones who weren’t, my mom wrote the kind of excuse letters schools eventually stopped questioning. We traveled constantly: Pennsylvania to Maryland, Delaware, Florida—stopping at every interesting place along the way. Cruises. Beaches. watching long stretches of ocean and sky go by.
My parents might have thought I was ungrateful sometimes—because of a face I made, or a tantrum from being stuck in the back of a car for twelve hours—but the truth is, I was always at peace while traveling, I was never afraid of what might happen or who we might meet. Being on the move felt as natural as breathing, and honestly, it was the one thing I was always sure I loved.
When I turned fifteen, I got my first job. By seventeen, I had three. I graduated a year early and moved out on my own just a couple of months before my parents relocated to Florida.
That first year alone was chaos.
My days ran on a brutal loop: wake up early, work my first job at Moe’s Southwest Grill, go straight to my second job at the Boys & Girls Club—where I could at least see friends I’d grown up with—then two hours later start my overnight shift at Supportive Concepts for Families. At 4 a.m., I’d finally go home and sleep for five hours before starting all over again.
That’s when the panic attacks started.
And the itching—this horrible, crawling feeling under my skin, like ants moving through me, and I couldn’t figure out what had been going on.
My boyfriend at the time lived in Kissimmee, Florida, and kept telling me I should move. One day, something in me snapped—not in a dramatic way, but in a clear way. It felt like my brain broke open and all I could feel was the need to go.
So I planned.
Tampa was forty-five minutes from Kissimmee, three hours from Jacksonville where my parents lived. I already had a job transfer lined up at Moe’s. And just like that, I moved out of state—alone.
It was the most freeing feeling I had ever known.
It felt like I had taken everything I needed from Pennsylvania. Like a switch flipped inside me and said, it’s time, and for once, I listened.
In the last nine years, I’ve lived in four states. I’ve moved from city to city—sometimes with a plan, sometimes with only five hundred dollars in my pocket. There were times I felt so alone I didn’t know what to do with myself. I got into situations I never should have been in and figured my way out alone.
But I also learned things.
I learned how to be with myself.
I learned how to love myself.
I learned how to listen—to my intuition, to the universe, to the quiet pull of my own path.
I learned that not everyone you meet is meant to stay forever—and that doesn’t mean the connection was meaningless. Most recently, I’ve learned that I am a wanderer. My life was never meant to be traditional. It isn’t easy. It can be lonely. But along this path, I’ll meet people who change the way I see the world. I’ll encounter experiences—good and bad—that reshape me. And through all of it, I know this:
I’m ready.
Ready to step fully into the wanderer’s life.
Ready to follow where I’m being pulled.
Ready to share the journey as it unfolds.
If you’ve ever felt that same restlessness—
that quiet knowing that staying still was never meant for you—
you’re not alone.
You might be a wanderer too.
