I don’t know exactly what comes next yet after this pause. Not in a dramatic way — I’m just here, in the quiet of these winter days by the sea, learning to trust the rhythm of life as it unfolds.
Winter finally arrived in Rockport. A couple of nights below freezing, and the warmth of the mid-70s is gone — at least for now. The chill settles in, making me aware of my breath, my hands, and the slower way my body moves. This morning, I went for a walk, moving deliberately and noticing how good it felt simply to move. There was no destination. Just movement. Just showing up.
I’ve been thinking about strength lately. Not the loud, visible kind. Not the “before-and-after” kind.
The quiet kind that builds when you keep choosing small, doable things — a walk, a creative moment, a pause — even when you don’t know exactly where they’re leading.
Over the weekend, I took an art class. It felt easy and unhurried — just sitting with color and paper, letting things take shape without trying to make them anything more. That was enough.
I don’t know what shape my life will take next. But I’m starting to trust the rhythm of these days, by the sea.
Walking. Creating small things. Letting winter slow me down instead of resisting it.
I’m loosening my grip on the idea that clarity has to arrive before movement. Maybe movement is what brings clarity — one step, one brushstroke, one cold morning at a time.
What if this season isn’t asking me to decide anything at all? What if it’s simply asking me to stay present?
For now, this is where I am. I’ll keep walking and see what reveals itself.
I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to set out — but I had been imagining it for a long time.
Before I ever packed a bag or stepped into this season of slow, nomadic travel, there was a quieter beginning. Long before the movement, there was downsizing — sorting through years of accumulated things and thoughtfully deciding what to keep, what to release, and what no longer fit the life I was stepping into. The process took time, intention, and more emotional energy than I anticipated. In many ways, it was the first act of becoming a nomad.
Looking back, I can see how letting go of physical things created space — not just in my surroundings, but internally as well. What followed wasn’t a dramatic departure, but more of a gentle unfolding. A month of preparing and releasing gradually gave way to three months of movement, exploration, and learning how to live more lightly.
I’ve walked beaches along the Atlantic and the Gulf, dipped my toes into two of the Great Lakes, climbed lighthouses, and wandered quiet trails that encouraged me to slow down rather than rush ahead. I tasted local foods, explored without an agenda, and learned to move through places without hurrying toward the next one.
Along the way, I’ve witnessed the quiet magic of nature: manatees gliding through the water, foxes darting across my path, chipmunks and wild turkeys going about their days, and seabirds tracing graceful arcs across the sky. I’ve stood beneath brilliant fall colors, experienced a light dusting of snow, and — somewhat improbably — found myself swimming in late November.
Some of the most meaningful parts of this journey have been the people. I’ve spent time with two of my sisters, visited Amy and her family, Ryan and his family, and shared unhurried moments with my mother. I reconnected with a dear friend I had met years ago in Italy, a reminder of how deeply some connections endure across time and distance. I also spent time in person with a close friend I had once taught with in Japan, catching up in a way that felt grounding and familiar. Along the way, I was met with kindness from strangers — small gestures that lingered longer than expected.
What continues to surprise me most is how this life — outwardly full of movement — has brought a sense of inner steadiness. I’ve seen mountains, beaches, lakes, and everything in between — and more than that, I’ve learned how little I actually need to feel content. Each place, each mile has been less about change and more about alignment.
Now, as this post is published, I’ve settled into a two-month stay in a small coastal town — a sort of wintering without fully stopping. It feels like a natural pause in the movement, a chance to live a little slower while staying open to what unfolds.
This chapter isn’t about checking off destinations or collecting experiences for their own sake. It’s about paying attention — to landscapes, to people, and to myself. It’s about discovering that freedom can be both expansive and quiet at once, and that this quieter freedom is creating room to imagine what comes next.
As this journey continues, I’m holding it loosely — allowing space for rest, curiosity, and whatever unfolds in its own time. These past months have reminded me that life doesn’t always require us to know the whole path ahead. Sometimes it simply invites us to begin.
So, where have I landed for an extended stay? I’ve landed in the small coastal fishing town of Rockport, a place I’ve dreamed of living in more than once. The town has a slower pace and a small-town vibe that matches what I am craving right now. Slow, quiet walks on the beach, the hiking trail, or even through town all invite me to reflect and slow down. And so far, that is just what I have done. After a few weeks of preparing, a few months of traveling, and the busyness of the holidays, I knew I would be ready for a pause.
One thing that I love about Rockport is the art scene. For a small town, it has a big artistic presence. It has several art galleries, an art makers market, and the Rockport Center for the Arts which is “a multidisciplinary arts hub” and is not something you would expect to find in a little fishing town. It actually features local and national artists and always has a variety of offerings from gallery exhibits to events and education. The town is also home to quite a few very talented artists. And then there are the murals … with their beachy, artsy vibe. You might say that art is the heartbeat of Rockport.
I’m sure there are others who would say that fishing is the heartbeat of Rockport. Quite honestly, I think that fishing might be the main reason most people come to Rockport. I’m not really very interested in fishing, but I have photographed the bait shops and fishing boats many times. And actually, I probably have photographed them every time I’ve been here. The same colorful bait shops are always here welcoming me back. It’s kind of grounding to see things remain the same over time. I love to just walk along the marina and look at the many and varied boats. There are a couple of sailboats that I recognize from one visit to the next – the Gypsy Pirate with its skeleton crew and the Irish Rover with its mermaid figurehead. Friendly reminders that some things remain the same, but just age with the weathering of time.
I suppose another group of people might consider nature the heartbeat of Rockport. There is the quiet draw of the sea, the nearby state park, and the many waterbirds that call Rockport home—or, like many people, are winter Texans. And then there are the outdoor activities like hiking, kayaking, paddleboarding, boating, birdwatching, beachcombing, photography, dolphin watching… and that’s all available here in town without mentioning nearby opportunities.
I’ve been here two weeks now and haven’t done much more than settle in, walk, and breath in the salty air. This pause feels like a huge exhale. I know I am blessed to be able to embrace this nomadic life, which allows me to travel slowly and to pause when I feel the need, allowing me the space to listen to my inner voice and trust myself. For this brief pause, this is my home base.
Have you ever paused in a place that feels like home, even for a little while?
I’ve been at the condo I’m renting now for six days, wintering in a small coastal town by the bay, and this first stretch has been less about doing and more about arriving.
When I first got here, there were a couple of things that made it hard to settle in right away. The kitchen wasn’t as clean as I needed it to be, so I rewashed all the dishes, cleaned out the cabinets and pantry, and reorganized everything. I realized quickly that I couldn’t fully relax in the space without doing this first. Even though the kitchen is small, I worked through it slowly over a few days, running the dishwasher, handwashing certain items, and putting everything back in a way that felt right.
Once I knew the kitchen hadn’t met my standards, it also felt necessary to clean the rest of the condo. Not in a rushed or anxious way—just methodically, until the space felt calm and breathable again. Only then did it feel like a place I could actually land.
I made a grocery run for basic supplies and picked up takeout a few times. I gave myself permission to be a little indulgent before beginning the more intentional work of healing and change. There was no urgency, no sense that I needed to get everything “right” immediately.
What feels different this time is how open my days are. I don’t know anyone in this town. I don’t have work shaping my schedule or responsibilities quietly dictating my time. There’s no familiar structure to lean on—just me, a quiet condo, and the freedom to decide how each day unfolds. And instead of feeling unsettling, that openness feels incredibly good.
Mostly, I’ve been still.
I’ve watched the sunrise and sunset from my balcony overlooking the bay. Some mornings begin with a quiet walk along the beach, the air cool and the shoreline nearly empty. I’ve stretched gently, letting my body wake up slowly. I’ve lingered with my tea, watched kayakers drift by, and smiled as pelicans—one of my favorite water birds—dive awkwardly into the water for their meals. One evening, I poured a glass of wine and sat quietly as the sun slipped below the horizon, doing nothing more than noticing the light as it faded.
I’ve walked the beach without an agenda. I haven’t found any shells yet, but I waded into the cold water and felt the sand shift beneath my feet. I discovered a walking trail nearby and have a feeling I’ll spend more time there in the days ahead.
Beyond those small moments, I haven’t done much—and that feels exactly right.
This first week has been about giving myself room to arrive fully. To breathe. To let my body settle before asking it to change. To enjoy the luxury of unstructured time before layering in routines, projects, or plans.
There will be art classes and exploring. There will be longer walks, a fitness rhythm, better eating habits, and early mornings searching for whooping cranes wintering nearby. I want to find shells. I want to learn this place. All of that will come.
For now, this part matters too. The part that doesn’t look especially productive on the surface, but feels deeply restorative underneath.
This isn’t transformation yet—it’s preparation. A gentle clearing. A true settling in.
