Unquiet
Things

More than once over the past few months, I heard myself mumble despairingly, “I don’t think I can take another Florida summer.”

Even though I have lived here practically my whole life, I know deep in my soul that this is not where I am meant to be. (I’m certain that my soul is meant to be on the misty Pacific Northwest coastline or in a quaint New England town.) And yet, for the foreseeable future, Florida is where I must be. How to reconcile this?

This tension between where we feel we belong and where circumstances have us living is a struggle I know I’m not alone in facing. As I write this, I’m exploring the idea of “making peace with place” – trying to understand if it’s possible to find a way to thrive and find joy in our current location, even if it’s not our ideal. Can we truly make peace with a place that doesn’t feel like home?

I don’t have the answers, but I’m compelled to examine this conflict between my reality and my desires.

I was born in Ohio and lived there until the summer after my third-grade year. I know we had “seasons” there, but being indoctrinated in the hellscape of Florida summers for most of my life must have scoured all the experiences of cool temperatures and crisp air from my memory: the only season I can recall growing up in Milford Ohio is summer.

Weeks of being conscripted into summer camp arts and crafts and snacks with the Brownies, more weeks of vacation summer Bible school with my neighbor’s kids (I suspect summer camp was an excuse for my mother to get us out of her hair; no one in my family was religious.) Fireflies, sandboxes, and my mother’s small garden of snapdragons. I spent weekends at my grandparents’ house with my sisters, learning to ride a bike and reading stacks and stacks of books. This all happened in the heat and warmth of the summer. Curiously, I have no memories of autumn or winter.

My grandparents moved to Florida just before my fourth-grade year, and they brought their daughter, a single mother, and her three children with them. Growing up, we never lived more than ten minutes away from our grandparents, and I suspect that’s because, while yes, my mother was theoretically a fully functioning adult, she was also troubled in many ways and not actually a very responsible adult.

I spent my elementary school, junior high, high school, and college years in the same beachside town we moved to in 1985. I lived there until I was 28 years old. At this point, I moved from Florida and all my ties to the place. It was a bad move.

In 2011, the bad scene of that move to NJ culminated in my leaving to return to FL.

I initially landed in Orlando and lived there for about a year because that’s where my sister and best friend were, both having escaped Daytona’s skeezy orbit. But as luck would have it, I began dating someone who lived less than ten minutes from the house I grew up in, so back to Daytona, I went.

The timing worked out well because not long after that, my mother was diagnosed with cancer and died a year later. After that began my grandfather’s rapid decline, and my grandmother followed a few years later. Yvan and I lived together throughout this process, and we would have loved to move away (neither one of us sees ourselves as Florida people), but of course, I couldn’t leave the grandparents with no one else there to care for them.

Now the shoe is on the other foot. Two years ago, we finally left the Daytona area, but it was to move only two hours north (still in Florida, UGH) for the sake of being closer to Yvan’s aging parents. Having already been through this with my own family, I’m acutely aware of the bittersweet nature of this time. It’s a harsh truth that we’re essentially waiting for loved ones to pass before we can pursue our relocation dreams.

But this realization comes with a crucial understanding: we can’t put our lives on hold. We can’t live as if everything will be better somewhere else, sometime else. We have to find a way to live our best lives now, right where we are.

It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of “someday” thinking. Someday we’ll move. Someday, we’ll be happier. Someday, we’ll start living. But life is happening now, in this place, at this moment. Putting our lives on hold not only robs us of present joy but can lead to regret and resentment. So, how do we make peace with a place that doesn’t feel like home? How do we find contentment and purpose in a location that doesn’t resonate with our souls?

Cheesy as it may sound, I’m trying to create a little list. While pondering these strategies is a start, the real challenge lies in putting them into practice. Here’s how I’m trying (emphasis on trying) to implement each one:

Find beauty in your current environment:

🐊   Keep a “Stupid Sexy Florida Beauty” journal: Each day, I try to note one beautiful thing (okay, that’s a stretch, I’ll confess I have downsized this to “nice thing”) I’ve observed, no matter how small. Sometimes, it’s as simple as how the light filters through the lacy grey tangles of Spanish moss or, say, the vibrant colors of a sunset reflecting off a retention pond. Listen, we work with what we’ve got.
🐊 Explore local natural areas: Florida has some stunning springs and nature preserves. I’m making a list of nearby spots to visit, even if it’s just for a short walk or a brief looky-loo.
🐊 Embrace the night: Since daytime can be unbearable, I’m re-learning to appreciate Florida’s nighttime beauty. Taking a walk around the neighborhood to gaze at the stars or say hello to the moon, or sitting on the porch during a thunderstorm can be magical.

(Re)Create a sense of home:

🐊 Declutter and redesign: I’m gradually going through each room, removing items that don’t resonate with me anymore (goodbye, excess skulls) and introducing elements that do (hello, cozy Shire-inspired nooks).
🐊 Create a “home away from home” corner: I’m designating a small area in our house to represent my ideal place. It might be a reading corner with pieces from PNW artists or a New England-style writing nook. I don’t know what that means really, but it’s very autumnal. In my imagination, anywhere north of, say, North Carolina is this perpetual, enchanted October otherworld (which I know can’t be true because I lived in New Jersey…but how quickly we forget!)

Engage with local community and culture:

🐊 Start small:  I’m setting a modest goal of one social interaction every few months. Which doesn’t sound like much, but that is the best this introvert can do! We have actually made a few friends in the area (huzzah! and thank you to former Jax-resident Shana for the introductions!)
🐊 Explore local food scenes: Every place has its culinary gems. I’m making it a point to try one new local restaurant or food truck each month.
🐊 Virtual engagement: For days when leaving the house feels overwhelming, I’m looking into online communities centered around local interests or issues. Local gardening groups, knitting groups, whatever. I will probably never meet these people, but it would be nice to have some local-feeling camaraderie.

Plan trips to places that resonate:

🐊 Create a travel fund: We’re setting aside a small amount each month specifically for trips to places we love. And maybe eventually go on our honeymoon to Japan! Which…is probably going to be a lot like Florida, whoops.
🐊 Weekend getaway list: I’m compiling a list of drivable destinations (like Savannah) for quick escapes when we need a change of scenery.
🐊 Bring vacation home: After each trip, I’d like to incorporate an element of that place into our daily lives. It might be a new recipe, a decor item, or a habit we picked up.

Shift perspective through creativity:
🐊 Write fictional vignettes set in Florida: By imagining fantastic or intriguing scenarios in my current setting, I’m trying to see the place through new eyes.
🐊 Photography challenge: I’m challenging myself to take beautiful or interesting photos of my surroundings, encouraging me to look for beauty in unexpected places.

Practice gratitude:

🐊 Daily, I try to note one thing I’m grateful for about our current situation. It might be as simple as “I’m grateful for air conditioning, this ice-cold gin gimlet, and having cultivated a viciously grim sense of humor” on particularly hot days.

Implementing these strategies is an ongoing process, full of two steps forward and one step back. Some days, the only thing I manage is not cursing the sun. I know, lordy, how I know, that Florida isn’t all beaches and bikinis and whatnot; it’s actually kind of a weird, creepy place, and I know I am not the only weirdo here.

So this is less about loving every aspect of where you are and more about finding ways to thrive despite the challenges. It’s about creating pockets of joy and meaning, even when the overall environment doesn’t resonate with your soul. Pockets full of moss and lizards and little creamed-colored seashells that whisper terrible things in ancient marine languages when you hold it to your ear.

Making peace with place often requires a shift in perspective. Instead of focusing on what’s missing, we can choose to see the unique opportunities our current location provides. For me, living in Florida means I can be there for family during an important time. It means I can explore a state that many only dream of visiting. Moreover, this experience of feeling out of place is shaping me. It’s teaching me resilience, adaptability, and the art of finding joy in unexpected places. These lessons will (theoretically?) serve me well, no matter where I eventually end up.

While it’s natural to dream of other places, I recognize it’s crucial to live fully in the present, and by making peace with my current place, I open myself up to unexpected joys and growth opportunities. So yes, I may never fully embrace Florida’s sweltering, sticky, butt-and-boob-sweat summers. I may always feel a pull towards the charming small-town Stars Hollows or the Derry, Maines (just kidding about that one…sort of?) But for now, I’m here. And here, I am trying to find beauty, create meaning, and live fully. Home is much more than just a place. It’s the feelings we create, the life we build, and the perspective we choose.

My grandfather, and probably grandfathers the world over, used to say, “Wherever you go, there you are.” Even if I wind up in the perfect little cottage, high on a bluff, with a bunch of old-growth forests over the ridge and listening to the eerie tremolo of the loons from an ancient lake in my backyard (I am combining all the places I want to live into one extra amazing place here), I’ll still be me with all my wanting and yearning and seeking. Who knows, I might not be happy anywhere. But I am especially not going to be happy in a place where I am not. So I might as well try to make it happen in the place where I actually am.

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