Embracing My Inner Hippie

For most of my life, I never would’ve described myself as a hippie.

But not too long ago, when I was teaching 3rd grade, my principal introduced me to someone as “a hippie in disguise.” I remember smiling politely while a little surprised by his words.

On the outside, I was the picture of conservative, school-appropriate professionalism. I’d spent many years as an art teacher—yet even then, I dressed in dark colors, the kind that help you blend into the background when you’re an introvert and carrying extra weight you don’t want to draw attention to. Part of me longed for paint-splattered overalls and colorful, breezy clothes… but I hid behind layers meant to camouflage rather than express.

Still, his words stuck with me. They made me pause. Reflect. Consider.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized… maybe he saw something I hadn’t acknowledged in myself.

Because while I wasn’t a “traditional” hippie, my life had always carried that quiet undercurrent of earthy, artsy freedom. I loved color, texture, music of every kind. My classrooms were often filled with branches—sometimes painted in bright hues, sometimes left natural and wild—stretching overhead like a tiny forest.

As a kid in the ’60s, I watched the true hippies from a distance while I played with dolls. By the time I hit my teens in the ’70s, we were wearing bell-bottom hip-huggers and burning incense, but by then it was mostly just a fashion trend—one that quickly gave way to disco balls and parachute pants.

But I think what truly shaped his impression was a conversation we’d had about grounding.

Grounding—or earthing—is simply reconnecting with the Earth’s natural electric charge. For me, it began accidentally. I always felt drawn to beaches and could walk barefoot in the sand for hours, feeling calmer, clearer, more alive than I could explain. Later, I learned there was actual science behind it: walking barefoot on grass, sand, or soil allows your body to absorb the Earth’s free electrons. It restores something. It resets something. It heals something.

And without ever meaning to, grounding became one of the most natural rhythms of my life.

On my recent trip to North Carolina, I stumbled upon a baseball cap that simply said tree hugger. A little voice inside whispered, Buy it. So I did.

The funny thing is—I don’t actually hug trees. But I do place my hands on them. It’s something I began doing when I lived in Japan, where many ancient trees are honored and protected. I once watched an elderly woman gently touch the bark of a sacred tree at a temple, a handmade rope wrapped around its wide trunk. There was tenderness in the way she made contact, reverence even. Watching her gave me a quiet kind of permission.

Now, on my hikes, I often pause and put my hands on the bark of old trees—the coolness, the texture, the steady presence. I understand now that it’s another form of grounding, another way of connecting. And wearing that little hat feels like a nod to a part of myself I’ve grown to love.

Add to that my long-held desire to travel full-time… maybe even in a camper van someday… and I suppose the pieces start to form a picture. Not the wild, flower-crowned stereotype of a hippie, but a quieter version—someone drawn to the earth, to beauty, to freedom, to color, to experiences over things.

So maybe my principal was right.

Maybe I was a hippie in disguise.

Or maybe, over time, I’ve simply grown into the parts of myself that were always there—waiting for permission, waiting for space, waiting for me to stop hiding and start becoming.

Maybe this is the season I finally embrace her.