A quiet return to myself through travel, art, and stillness.
Category: Solo Living
Reflections and stories from traveling and living on my own. This category explores the joys, challenges, and lessons of embracing independence, discovering yourself, and navigating life solo—whether on the road, in new towns, or simply finding peace in your own company.
This week gave me nothing extraordinary to write about, yet it has been full and rich in all the right ways.
I am currently back at my son’s place—my nomadic home base.
It has been a slow-paced week of Legos, flower picking, and imaginary play. I’ve been immersed in the ordinary lives of my three grandsons. In just nine short days, I’ve watched a jiu jitsu class and a flag football game, taken a quick trip to Palestine for lunch and a hike through the annual fairy garden trail, and simply been present for everyday moments.
On the drive to Palestine, we told stories about them when they were little, their dad when he was little, and even a few stories from my own childhood. We laughed at silly things and listened to favorite songs. It was one of those simple days that means more than you expect.
This week, I’ve also been trying to walk at least ten minutes after most meals, along with a longer walk on many days. I’ve been sorting through a few things too, hoping to travel lighter on my next trip.
And I’m loving the freedom of not being weighed down by things.
This new life didn’t just change where I lived—it changed how I live.
I now lean into things that I used to think were flaws. Like being an introvert. I savor that time alone to recharge. I used to push against that and now I embrace it.
A few days ago I sat in the sunshine by the lake and just felt the warmth on my skin and listened to the gentle sounds of nature. I no longer feel the need to rush.
With the fast-paced life of teaching as just a memory now, I can fully breathe. I am deeply content with traveling and living alone. Having the space to breathe allows me to savor the moments with family and friends.
I’ve roughly planned the next several months: Colorado, New Mexico, North Carolina, and stops in between. I’m excited for what’s ahead. I am envisioning mountain hikes, lakes, and room to embrace slow travel. There will be time alone and some visits with family and friends.
But for right now, I’m grounded in the moment, with two more weeks here with my grandsons. I’m treasuring these days of sitting outside to watch the sunrise, hearing the rain on the roof, and listening to them play nearby.
Each month this year, I’ve been choosing a project centered around intentional living and personal growth. In January, I focused on really seeing. In February, it was acts of kindness.
March, though, didn’t begin with a clear plan. Somewhere between moving multiple times, settling into Fredericksburg, and spending my days with my mom, a different kind of project quietly took shape — one I didn’t plan, but simply lived.
This month became about letting go of structure and allowing a natural rhythm to emerge.
I thought my month in Fredericksburg would be slow-paced and relaxing, but it did not start out that way. The house I had leased for the month had one tiny problem — a mouse — which I discovered after I had unloaded most of my things.
The woman I rented it from had another place I could stay temporarily while I looked for something else. But there were no other rentals available in my price range on such short notice. Instead, she arranged for me to move between a couple of Airbnb rentals, which meant packing up and relocating four different times during the month.
My only other option would have been to give up my time in Fredericksburg with my mom and go somewhere else. I decided to be flexible, move around, and stay.
So far, it’s been well worth it.
My mom and I have shared some really lovely moments. My niece came for a visit, and we spent time together talking, eating good food, and catching up. Then my sister Kathy visited. We took mom to Hallmark — her favorite store — and helped her pick out cards for the next few months. After lunch, we sat with her and organized them.
The next day, Kathy and I rearranged mom’s room to make it more functional for her. We also had some priceless time together catching up, and shared the best cheese enchiladas I’ve had in a long time.
Each day, I sit with my mom during one or more meals and visit with her and her tablemates. And each day, I’ve been slowly cleaning out and reorganizing her drawers, her closet, and her things, trying to make her small space feel a little more peaceful and ordered. There’s something about it that has felt unexpectedly therapeutic.
This has been the rhythm I’ve found in Fredericksburg.
Other things have been more sporadic — the gym, a few CrossFit workouts, hiking at Enchanted Rock, and exploring some of the tourist spots I’ve never seen before. But the rhythm hasn’t been in those things. It’s been in the everyday moments — sitting, talking, organizing, and simply being with my mom.
I am in my seventh month of being a nomad, and I’m starting to feel more comfortable going with the flow and being spontaneous. I am learning to settle into a place and find my rhythm there, whether that looks like walks on the beach or time spent with my mom.
More than anything, I’m deeply appreciating time with family, and this month has given me so much of that.
As this month comes to an end, I find myself reflecting.
I did some of the things I had hoped to do — a few hikes, some exploring, small moments of getting out and experiencing this place. But that isn’t what lingers.
What lingers are the quiet rhythms that shaped my days — the conversations, the routines, the simple act of being there with my mom.
This month didn’t unfold the way I expected. But somewhere along the way, it settled into exactly what it needed to be — a rhythm rooted in connection, in presence, and in time with my mom.
Some days aren’t meant for plans. They’re meant for wandering — for walking slowly down familiar streets, noticing the things you might otherwise pass by.
This week, I found myself doing just that in Fredericksburg, letting the day unfold one small moment at a time.
The morning light hit the buildings along Main Street just right, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. The town felt quieter at this hour, as if it was still stretching awake. A few doors were just beginning to open, the soft sound of shops coming to life spilling into the street.
Walking through a small town on a sunny morning has always been one of my favorite ways to explore. Even here, in a place I’ve been many times before, everything felt a little new — as if I was seeing it again for the first time.
A small shop window stopped me in my tracks. Bunnies tucked among soft florals, pale pastels layered carefully, each detail placed with intention. It was simple, but beautiful in a way that made me pause a little longer than expected.
A few doors down, another window caught my eye — leather boots and Stetson hats. I could almost imagine the familiar scent of leather, the kind that lingers in a good boot store. Classic, unmistakably Texas.
I found a bench and sat for a while. The air still held onto the cool of the morning, but the sun was beginning to warm it. Footsteps echoed lightly along the sidewalk. A couple passed by, walking hand in hand, their pace unhurried. I caught myself wondering about them — how long they’d been together, whether this was home or just a visit, what their story might be.
More people began to appear, one or two at a time. A quiet rhythm was building.
I stopped for a chai tea and stayed longer than I had planned. It was the kind of pause that didn’t need a reason. I just sat there, people-watching. I found myself doing more of this these days — allowing space for small moments to be enough on their own.
The busyness of being a mother and teacher felt far away in moments like this. There was space to notice. To sit. To stay.
And then, I got up and continued on — a little slower, a little more aware, carrying the quiet of the morning with me.
Before February had found its rhythm, I found myself on the receiving end of an unexpected kindness in a Starbucks drive-through. A stranger paid for my chai tea and drove off without waiting for thanks.
I had set out to make this month about giving — random and intentional acts of kindness — but it seemed kindness was already finding me first.
February marked the second month of my yearlong project to live more intentionally, and my focus was simple: to do random and not-so-random acts of kindness. I planned to give snack bags to the few homeless people I’d seen around town, drop off books at the Little Free Library, pay it forward in small ways, volunteer, leave “pocket hug” rocks in unexpected places, create ephemeral art on the beach, and support local businesses.
With shopping, I had a special plan: to visit every little shop in Rockport’s cultural arts district and offer a genuine compliment — either about the shop or its owner and staff. The idea came about when I realized that, despite my visits to Rockport, there were several shops I had never ventured into. This project was about spreading kindness and, hopefully, bringing a smile — whether through a compliment, a small surprise, or a fleeting piece of art on the beach.
One morning, I decided to begin with the beach.
While I was sitting on a towel shaping seashells into a heart in the sand, I heard a man calling out in the distance. Before I could fully register what was happening, a dog came running straight toward me, closing the space between us quickly. I let out a short, startled scream. He stopped just a few feet away, almost as surprised as I was, then jogged past me at eye level before returning to his owner who had been calling him all along.
My heart took longer to settle than the sand did. I smoothed the places where his paws had scattered the shells, then quietly resumed my work. There was little I could have done if the moment had unfolded differently, and I whispered a thank-you to God for my safety. The interruption felt like a small reminder that my little heart of shells wasn’t the only fragile thing on the sand. I brushed the sand from my hands and kept working.
It had taken me several mornings of beachcombing to gather enough shells to shape the heart as I envisioned it, though the large shell and sea star were not treasures I uncovered along the way. Even so, I felt content with that imperfect first attempt. Kindness, I was learning, doesn’t require perfection — only willingness.
As the month unfolded, I began to notice something unexpected: I was receiving far more than I gave.
One day at the library, I went to pay for printing and realized I was a dollar short in cash and they didn’t take cards. The librarian smiled and said it was fine — someone had left extra money in case another person needed it. At an artist reception, a woman I had never met sat beside me, introduced herself, and we quickly became friends. She even invited me to another art event hosted by her art co-op. A Winter Texan who volunteers at the art center remembered my name from a single previous encounter and invited me to a casual “sip and chat” gathering. I paused to chat with a young woman placing a book into the Little Free Library, only to learn that she regularly drives to surrounding towns, leaving wrapped books with bookmarks in each one.
On another day, I witnessed volunteers rescuing a wounded brown pelican — my favorite water bird. The sun was just beginning to set over the bay as two men moved slowly toward him. As they carefully secured him, he stretched out one long wing, almost tentatively, as if he were being gentle with them in return. There was a quiet patience in the moment — no panic, no struggle — just careful movements and steady hands. They gently gathered him up and placed him into a large cage in the back of their SUV. Watching them, it felt as though there was a kind of trust between bird and rescuer, a shared stillness that made the scene unexpectedly tender.
Pelican rescue by Wings Rescue of Aransas County.
Throughout the month, small conversations with locals slowly made me feel less like a visitor and more like I belonged.
Being an introvert, this month required more bravery and self-discipline than I anticipated. I’m naturally observant and reflective, someone who pays close attention before engaging. As a photographer and creative, I’m often the one behind the lens — noticing, documenting, taking it all in. So walking into unfamiliar shops, offering sincere compliments, and initiating conversations with strangers nudged me beyond my comfort zone. What looked simple on paper quietly required intention and courage.
Looking back on this month, I’m reminded of something I once heard: what we give often comes back to us. When we offer love, kindness, or attention, it often returns in unexpected ways. In Rockport, the simplest gestures — smiles, greetings, shared stories, and thoughtful acts — seemed to ripple outward, creating connections that were both gentle and profound. I felt seen, welcomed, and part of a community of people who genuinely cared for one another and their town.
February in Rockport wasn’t just about the acts of kindness I planned. It became a reminder that when we step forward with open hands — even imperfectly — connection has a way of meeting us there. Like smoothing scattered shells back into place, we begin again, and something gentle takes shape.
Eleven months ago, I retired from teaching. A year ago, my life looked completely different. I was still teaching full-time, and my mother was living with me. My days revolved around schedules I had very little control over.
As a teacher, your day runs on carefully planned blocks of time. Outside of school, you build more routines just to keep everything moving—family, household, responsibilities. Structure wasn’t optional; it was necessary.
When I first retired, my mother was still with me, and I built new routines around her needs. Then everything changed quickly after she had an injury that led to a hospital stay, then rehab, and eventually long-term care. My time shifted again—this time revolving around visits, paperwork, decisions, and the stress of navigating systems I never expected to understand. Even after things settled, I noticed I was still operating as if something urgent might happen at any moment.
You probably know the rest of the story since I started this blog. I decided to sell everything and travel, which led me to where I am now: a winter pause in Rockport, Texas.
When I first arrived in Rockport, I had already been traveling for about three and a half months. I didn’t realize how much I needed this pause. I spent the first week simply settling in. After that, I explored a little, but what I really needed was downtime and reflection.
Even with temperatures in the mid-seventies, I gave myself a kind of winter reprieve. I allowed myself to do very little. Slowly, small routines formed—sitting on the balcony at sunrise, writing reflectively, adding gentle morning stretches, taking daily walks. Beach walks happened whenever I felt like it. Some days I stopped by an art gallery. Other days I drove to Port Aransas to beachcomb. There was no pressure attached to any of it. I moved at my own pace.
What I realize now is that slowing down doesn’t happen automatically just because your calendar clears. It takes time for your mind and body to catch up. It took me a while to notice how tightly I had been holding everything together.
What’s shifting isn’t just my schedule. It’s my sense of worth. For most of my life, I measured myself by what I accomplished and how well I met expectations—my own and everyone else’s. Teaching reinforced that rhythm. Caregiving deepened it. There was always something to manage, improve, respond to. Now, for the first time, there isn’t. No colleagues. No evaluations. No one expecting me to perform. And I’m beginning to realize that I don’t need to fill that space. I can simply exist in it.
Giving myself the luxury of time allowed something to shift. My sleep evened out. My energy felt steadier. I wasn’t reacting all day long. I was choosing.
Now, about six weeks into this stay, I feel more lively and energetic. My routines have expanded to include more consistent fitness and a few art classes. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and talking to strangers more easily. The difference is that these things feel chosen, not required.
Last week I visited my mom for a couple of days—it was good to spend time with her. But returning to the bay felt like coming home, in a quiet, settled way. I’ve always loved being near water, whether a lake, river, or ocean. Here, slowing down has allowed me to notice that pull instead of pushing past it. This season—the slower mornings, unhurried afternoons, and steady presence of the bay—feels exactly where I’m meant to be right now.
Beside the tranquil waters of Little Bay in Rockport, TX, stands a bronze statue depicting a group of figures. I drive past it almost daily. It was here when I last visited about a year ago. I even stopped and photographed it one morning because it was dramatically silhouetted in a glorious sunrise on my way to the beach. Even though I saw it frequently, I didn’t really see it. Not far from the sculpture stands a giant crab, a familiar sight for tourists that’s easy to pass without really looking. We do that, as humans. We go about our day taking things for granted. Living on the surface. But how often do we stop and smell the roses, as the saying goes? Well, this extended stay in Rockport has invited me to slow down and do just that. And my observation of this lack of seeing inspired me to purposely look at things, which then inspired me to do a little project, which inspired me to challenge myself to do a project each month. So here goes …
I decided for the first project (January) to simply photograph things at different times of the day just to see how they appeared in different light. So, I chose some things … the sculpture by Little Bay, the giant crab, Marge – the fishing boat, a larger boat, the view of the old downtown from beside the shell shop, and a couple of other things. Then I set up my parameters – I would photograph them at sunrise, morning, afternoon, sunset, and night. True to my MO, I saw the big picture and neglected to think about how it would actually feel to drive to the location five times a day (in any weather, even after dark), although I apparently live in a geographical oddity where everything is four or five minutes away—still, I was committed.
My first subject was the sculpture by Little Bay, which honestly, I knew nothing about. Turns out it is titled “Cultural Interface” by Texas artist Steve Russell and was unveiled in December of 2023. On the first day I rolled out of bed, got dressed, and left the house before sunrise. It was a particularly cold and windy morning. I sat in my car for a few minutes until I saw the beautiful orange color silhouetting the sculpture. I made a mental note of where I stood for each shot, took the shots, and returned quickly to my car. Done. When I returned for my second shots, the sky was a gorgeous blue, and the light was hitting the faces of most of the subjects. I noticed there was a sign with a QR code, so I opened the link as I hurried back to my warm car. When I got home, I read the information about the artist and the sculpture. The figures were representational of the cultural history of Aransas County and feature a family of three Karankawa’s, a group of Native Americans who lived in the area, a Spanish Conquistador, a pirate, and a monk. On the third visit to photograph the sculpture, I really looked at it. The sky was still a beautiful blue, but the angle of the light had shifted and illuminated the whole front of the subjects. This time I noticed the beautiful patina on the hair of the Native Americans. I noticed the peg leg on the pirate, the garments of the Conquistador, and the compassionate look on the monk’s face. When the time for the sunset photo rolled around, I didn’t really want to go again. I wondered if someone had been watching me on each visit, standing in the same place over and over—would they think I was crazy? Or maybe they would question their own sanity: didn’t I see that very same sequence of events earlier today? Anyway, I went and was glad I did. The sky faded from a powdery blue into a pale orange that blended into a pinkish purple. Such a soft, beautiful sky! I knew the color would disappear quickly, so after I enjoyed the sunset for a short while, I decided to go pick up something for dinner and then come back after dark for the last photo of the day. Moonlight and the lights from town lit the sky with a soft blue glow, though to the naked eye it seemed dark. So, one subject was completed and I felt satisfied.
I went on to photograph several other things with similar results. The crab had a storied history: first installed in 1957 atop a local restaurant, it was moved, repaired, and repainted over the years, surviving hurricanes before eventually being rebuilt by the community—and again rebuilt after Hurricane Harvey. I also photographed the historic downtown cultural district, observing the streets transform from a lone jogger to crowds flowing from coffee to shopping to dinner.
All in all, I’m glad I completed this project. Even though I occasionally had to make myself go, I followed through. There’s a quiet trust that grows when you do what you say you’re going to do. I learned things about the community that deepened my belief in the importance of the arts in Rockport and gave me a little more insight into its history. And mostly, I slowed down. I took the time to really look at things and be an observer in this little town that I love, feeling more a part of the community rather than like a visitor.
I’m looking forward to beginning my February project!
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.
I recently visited Acworth, Georgia—a charming lakeside town tucked into the foothills of the North Georgia mountains. Known as “The Lake City,” Acworth sits along the banks of Lake Acworth and Lake Allatoona, with quiet water views, a historic downtown, and that unmistakable Southern warmth that makes you want to slow down and stay a while.
But my visit to Acworth wasn’t just about exploring a new place. It was about reconnecting with a friend I met years ago, in one of my favorite places in the world: Italy.
Several years ago, I spent a summer living alone in Vicenza. I didn’t know a single person when I arrived—not in the city, and not in Italy at all. The only connection I had was my work as a DODEA teacher, which allowed me base access and the chance to join excursions organized for the military community. I spent my days wandering cobblestone streets, hopping on trains to nearby cities, and studying in the base library as I finished postgraduate coursework. I had been learning Italian and tried to practice whenever I could, though many locals would kindly reply in English.
One afternoon, while out in town, I met Gail—an American whose husband was working on the base. We became instant friends, one of those rare people you click with immediately, as if you’ve known them for years. From that moment on, the summer blossomed into a series of unforgettable adventures.
We went to wine tastings tucked into hillside vineyards, lingered over meals in tiny restaurants hidden down narrow streets, and explored festivals bursting with color and music. Her husband often joined us, and the three of us shared some of the funniest and most memorable moments of my time in Italy.
There was the day we drove up the mountain to Asiago—yes, where the cheese comes from—twisting through those dramatic hair-pin turns that somehow felt equal parts exhilarating and slightly terrifying. And then there was the legendary “goat trail” incident, when the GPS insisted that a narrow path through an orchard was, in fact, the correct route to a winery. We laughed the whole way, convinced we were about to end up in the middle of someone’s field, but also fully committed to the adventure.
Those months in Italy were a gift—full of curiosity, connection, and the kind of friendship that stays with you long after the plane ride home.
Which is why seeing Gail again in Acworth felt so special. We slipped right back into that easy rhythm, sharing memories, catching up on life, and enjoying the simple joy of spending time together. Acworth made the perfect backdrop for it—peaceful lakes, mountain-framed views, and a welcoming town that encourages you to pause, breathe, and appreciate the people who matter.
Travel has taken me many places, but some of the most meaningful moments are the ones that reconnect me with the friendships formed along the way. My visit to Acworth was one of those moments—a sweet reminder that distance and time mean very little when a friendship is built on shared adventure, laughter, and the kind of connection you don’t stumble upon often.
