by Karon -

My First Nomad-aversary: One Year of Going Alone

It’s already my first nomad-aversary!

One year ago, I sold almost everything I owned and set off to see what life might look like without a permanent home. I had joked about becoming a nomad for years, so by the time I finally started sorting through closets, drawers, and decades of accumulated stuff, I was emotionally ready.

Or so I thought.

It turns out that being ready to leave and actually deciding what to do with years of belongings are two very different things. Downsizing was more challenging than I expected, and there were definitely moments when I wondered what in the world I was doing.

But somewhere between leaving my old life behind and finding my way through seventeen states, I discovered something I hadn’t expected.

I didn’t just learn that I could live with less. I learned more about what I want more of.

More time with my family and friends. More forests and beaches. More wandering through small towns and lingering long enough to really get to know a place. More photography. More art galleries. More of those ordinary, beautiful moments that are easy to miss when life feels busy.

Madrid, New Mexico

None of these things are new loves. But this past year has given me the chance to make more room for them.

So, before I get too sentimental, I thought it would be fun to look back at year one of this adventure—the places I’ve been, a few favorites, what surprised me, and some of what this nomadic life has taught me along the way.

The Numbers:

  • seventeen states and one other country—all repeat visits
  • two Great Lakes
  • five lighthouses
  • eight beaches
  • one caldera
  • two national parks
  • seven state parks
  • seventeen Dambo Trolls
  • three desert communities
  • one lavender farm
  • twenty-six old churches
  • 48 things checked off from my 2025 List of Ideas (August–December)
  • 51 things checked off from my 2026 List of Ideas (January–August)

My Favorites:

  • Meal – surprisingly, Mexican food in Colorado Springs at Milagro’s Cocina Mexicano
  • Adventure – hiking to the Eternal Flames Falls in New York
  • Beach – Anna Maria Island, Florida
  • Small town – Manitou Springs and Golden, Colorado; Sackets Harbor and Ellicottville, New York. I had a hard enough time narrowing it down to four.
  • Seasonal thing – fall in New York
  • Old church – Loretto Chapel in Santa Fe, New Mexico

What Surprised Me:

  • how much I enjoyed meeting new people
  • how much I missed pine trees and forest walks while I was in the desert
  • how quickly a new place can start to feel familiar
  • how little I need to feel at home
  • how much I enjoy having nowhere particular to be
  • how tiring constant decision-making can occasionally be
  • how much confidence I’ve gained from figuring things out alone
  • how different it feels to live somewhere versus simply visit it

What I’ve Learned:

  • I cherish my time with family and friends more than ever
  • I need water in my life—whether it’s lakes, oceans, or rivers
  • apparently, I need pine trees too
  • I can trust myself more than I thought
  • confidence can grow quietly
  • talking to strangers isn’t nearly as scary as I once thought
  • I don’t have to know exactly what’s next
  • going alone doesn’t necessarily mean being lonely

I started my journey as a nomad with my son and his family in Texas, and I’m ending my first year with my daughter and her family back in North Carolina. Somehow, that feels like the perfect beginning and ending to this first year of the journey.

I love that this lifestyle has given me the flexibility to spend more time with family and friends, winter at the beach, wander through small towns, and really explore different areas. After one year as a nomad, I can honestly say it’s been a great first year.

I’m not making any travel plans just yet, but I have plenty of ideas for year two.

by Karon -

Being Open: My May Project

I’ve always been open to adventure. Life has taken me to places I never imagined, introduced me to people I never expected to meet, and given me experiences that once felt far beyond my comfort zone.

What surprised me about May wasn’t a new found willingness to try something different. It was how openness showed up in quieter ways.

Unlike previous months, I didn’t begin May with a specific challenge in mind. Looking back, though, I can see a theme woven throughout the month. It became a month of being open—open to conversations, invitations, friendships, and the unexpected moments that often arrive when we slow down enough to notice them.

I tend to move through the world quietly. While I enjoy people, I’m not usually the person who strikes up conversations with strangers. Yet somehow this month felt different. I found myself more willing to engage, more curious about the people around me, and more open to the connections that can happen in ordinary places.

I lingered over conversations with people I might normally have greeted and moved on from. At one gift shop, I chatted with a woman who had recently gone through a divorce and was returning to college as she figured out her next chapter. In another, the conversation centered around the unique aspen branches the owner had cut, dried, and used to display her merchandise. These weren’t life-changing conversations, but they added richness to my day and reminded me that everyone has a story.

As the conversations continued, I began to receive—and accept—invitations. One morning, three local regulars at a coffee shop invited me to join them. Normally, I would have politely declined. Instead, I pulled up a chair and spent the next hour talking with them about everything from local history to life in Colorado. They seemed to know everyone who walked through the door, and by the time I left, I felt less like a visitor and more like part of the community.

Not long after that, I met another nomad who happened to be pet sitting next door. Since then, we’ve shared meals, walked our pets together, and explored the area. One evening she invited me over for Thai food, which turned out to be a surprise celebration for my upcoming birthday.

Being open wasn’t just about people. It also showed up in my willingness to try new experiences. A temporary membership at a luxury gym gave me access to a recovery lounge filled with therapies and equipment. Some, like red light therapy and hydromassage, were already favorites. Others were completely new to me. The cryo chamber was a little intimidating at first, but it quickly became one of my favorite parts of the experience. The sensory deprivation float pod also felt a bit outside my comfort zone, yet it turned out to be surprisingly relaxing. The cold plunge, however, still has me negotiating with myself.

That same openness also influenced the way I explored Colorado. Instead of filling my calendar or planning every detail, I found myself following curiosity. A drive to Red Rocks, a morning in Golden, a walk around a new neighborhood, or a spontaneous stop somewhere that looked interesting often became the highlight of the day. I even drove up to Cripple Creek to see the Thomas Dambo troll. Because of my fear of heights and unfamiliar mountain roads, I had been hesitant to venture too far from the main highways. One day, though, I decided to go for it. Some of my favorite moments this month weren’t planned at all.

Looking back, I don’t think being open meant doing more. In many ways, it meant doing less.

This season of slow travel has given me the gift of time—time to linger over conversations, explore a town without an agenda, develop new friendships, and try experiences I might otherwise have rushed past.

Perhaps that is what surprised me most about May. By slowing down and being more present, I began to notice opportunities I might have otherwise missed—conversations, friendships, invitations, and experiences that arrived unexpectedly. None of these moments were extraordinary on their own, yet together they became the story of my month.

May reminded me that sometimes the richest experiences aren’t found by doing more. They are found by being fully present for what is already right in front of us.

by Karon -

My April Project: Less Scrolling, More Living

I had been toying with the idea of a digital detox for a while. I just didn’t realize how much I actually needed it.

With so much change over the past several months, I had begun to feel the need for less input, less noise, and more clarity. I decided to make that my April project—a digital detox of sorts: less TV, less scrolling, and more space to think.

With simple, clear rules—no TV and just 15 minutes of scrolling each day—I set out to clear the mental clutter. It felt like a natural next step after decluttering my life physically a few months ago.

I wasn’t perfect at meeting my goals, but I consistently tried. Like many people, I had justified my screen time because so much of it felt practical—calls, emails, and searches. Even so, by the end of the month, it had noticeably improved. My screen time was less than half of what it had been.

Giving up TV was easy. I really haven’t watched much for years. What surprised me was how much clutter came from social media—even the “helpful” kind. I follow smart people who share great advice on health and fitness, but after a while, even good information becomes overwhelming. Scrolling had quietly turned into a form of procrastination.

So I started putting my phone down and doing the next small thing instead. I began finishing things I had been putting off, and once I started, it became easier to keep going. My attention felt less fragmented, and my mind felt clearer.

Instead of consuming more ideas, I wanted to live the ones I already had. So I began putting some of my favorite advice into practice. Something shifted. I was taking action instead of endlessly thinking about taking action.

This month I read more, played with my grandsons, and walked after meals. One afternoon I sat outside without my phone—just the sound of birds, crickets, and frogs. The quiet felt deeply familiar, like stepping back into a slower rhythm I had almost forgotten. It helped that my son’s place is both peaceful and full of the everyday sounds of life—kids playing, laughter drifting in and out. I also began trying a couple of new habits from my list of “someday” ideas.

My goal was to simplify, decompress, and reclaim my attention. What I thought would be a project about reducing screen time turned out to be something deeper. It wasn’t just about using my phone less—it was about returning to life as it was happening and being fully present for it.

by Karon -

Slow Days by the Bay: A Season of Slowing Down

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.

by Karon -

The Art of Going Alone: How It All Started

Travel journal and colored pencils on a vibrant mat at the beach — a peaceful moment of creativity and reflection by the sea.

For much of my life, my greatest masterpiece has not been a painting, a photograph, or a lesson plan — it has been my children. They were, and are, my best thing. Through all the years of balancing the wonders of motherhood with the joyful chaos of teaching — whether in the art room or the classroom — I carried within me a quiet longing to create, to explore, to discover my own artistic style.

Now, I find myself standing in a new season. I have retired from teaching, carefully tucked away years of memories, and let go of most of the belongings that once filled my home. In their place, I’ve chosen open skies, winding roads, and the promise of adventure. What remains with me — always — is family. My children, now grown, walk their own paths, and my grandsons, those little sparks of joy, light up my world in ways words can barely hold.

Feet walking along a sandy beach — a quiet moment of reflection and connection with nature.

And so begins The Art of Going Alone. It is not about loneliness, but about listening — to the inner voice that has long waited for its time. It is about seeking beauty in coastal towns and hidden streets, in the sway of trees and the rhythm of water. It is about experimenting with brushstrokes and photographs, discovering what feels authentic, what feels true.

This journey is not an escape but an embrace. I am not leaving family behind; I am carrying them with me — in stories, in phone calls, in the way my heart still dances when I hear “Grandma” or “Christmas Tree” (a story for another time). They are my anchor, even as I set out to sail.

I don’t know yet exactly where this road will lead. Perhaps toward an artistic voice I have not yet heard clearly. Perhaps toward new friendships, new places that become beloved, new lessons learned in unexpected corners of the world. But I do know this: life is too short to let dreams linger unspoken.

So here I am — reinventing, exploring, wandering, creating. This is my canvas now. And you are welcome to walk alongside me, as I learn the art of going alone.

Kari