Finding my roots. It’s something that I’ve fought for eight years. I’ve made home in places all over the country. Whether it was summers in beachside SoCal cities, living in mountain laden lands, the cornfields of Indiana, the islands of the Caribbean, the rolling hills of Kentucky, or the Gulfside bays of Texas, I’ve lived in numerous places over the years. More than anything, I was always looking. Looking for the next thing, the better option, or trying to make my way. Maybe I was used to being on the move or thought this is what an “adventurous life” was all about. Maybe I couldn’t imagine life without a passport filled and my days full of nature, road trips, or adventure.
To be honest, I hated having roots. The idea of being planted somewhere for the long-term sounded terrible. It seemed that when I made furniture purchases I was settled. The idea of this was terrifying. I would often sit in a store, knowing I needed to make purchases, but fiercely struggled within thinking, “Is this it? Am I staying here forever?” Maybe it’s being a twenty-something who can work remotely or the thought of committing to a place that felt less than a good fit, but there was something appealing about being able to pack up my car or two 50lb bags, sell items, and move on. There was something sexy about it. It felt wild and free. I knew anytime a season became challenging or difficult, moving on to the next thing was a present and available option. With it came the shiny brilliance of new, new hope, new possibility, and a new place to explore.
Then something changed. I wanted to have roots.
While I will always love travel, one of my favorite parts is now coming home. More than anything, I’m loving having roots. There’s something about developing, growing, and choosing to go after more in a community of people that know you. They call out the best in you and even show you the beauty that can be had in being present, not escaping, and calling a movement home. I’ve learned that I love returning at the end of a long day, not to an air mattress on the floor or a bed on the floor, but to furniture that has a story and a bit of a soul. Our little space is definitely one that love built. Whether it’s the melodies that come from nights playing the piano, a glass of wine on the patio, or knowing all the DIY projects we’ve completed over the past year. It’s the spaces and the people that fill my days that I’ve learned to love. I’ve come to love the relationships that are developed not in a flash, from a platform, or in a fleeting moment, but those that have stood the course of time, full of grit and beauty. I’ve learned to love where I come from, embracing my heritage, occasionally craving some fried chicken, and embracing the NorCal culture that I live in. More than anything I’ve come to love my roots and have discovered that contentment might be the new sexy option for me.
Don’t get me wrong, I still will pack my bags and go on month-long travel seasons, as it has become quite the tradition. But I will come home and develop roots all the stronger.
How do you have roots as a twenty-something?