Greetings my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones,

Lately, memories have been showing up like unexpected guests—soft knocks on the door of my mind while I’m doing the most ordinary things. I’ll be sitting at my desk waiting for another support call, brewing coffee, or hanging clothes out on the line, and suddenly I’m back in Yellowstone. Or Niagara Falls. Or standing somewhere I haven’t thought about in years.

It’s funny how planning one trip makes every other trip rise to the surface like they’ve been waiting for their turn. And the more these memories come back, the clearer something becomes: I’ve always wanted to see the world.

When I was a little girl growing up in northwestern New Jersey, if someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said the same thing: A journalist.

Not because I imagined myself in a newsroom or chasing breaking headlines. I wanted to write because I loved words—deeply, fiercely, instinctively. Libraries were my first temples. I’d wander aisle after aisle, pulling books off shelves like they were treasures, leaving with a stack so tall I could barely see over it. Barnes & Noble still has the same effect on me.

Words have always fascinated me. Their meanings. Their histories. The way one tiny shift—a synonym, a rearranged phrase—can change the entire emotional temperature of a sentence. Words can empower, break, heal, preserve, and ignite. They can cradle someone who’s grieving or crack open a truth someone has been afraid to say out loud. Words create magic, and I wanted to be part of that.

But journalism wasn’t just about writing. It was about traveling. It was about asking questions, standing where history happened, and understanding how other people lived instead of only reading about it. I wanted to walk through old buildings, museums, castles, battlefields, and tiny towns most people drive past without a second thought. I wanted to taste foods I’d never tried, breathe in air that didn’t smell like home, and learn the rhythm of places that existed long before I ever arrived.

I didn’t want souvenirs. I wanted stories.

Life, as it usually does, took a few turns. I never became a journalist. But looking back now, I don’t think that dream ever disappeared—it simply changed shape. I never stopped doing what first inspired it. I still chase stories. The only difference is that now, I’m writing my own.

Every place I’ve ever visited has left something behind—not in a suitcase, but in me.

I remember Niagara Falls, not just as a massive waterfall, but as mist settling on my face and the thunderous roar filling the air. I remember wandering through a recreated nineteenth-century village afterward, where the scent of fresh bread drifted through the air, tea and warm scones tasted even better surrounded by history, and botanic gardens bloomed with hydrangeas so enormous they looked painted by hand.

I remember Yellowstone—snow clinging to distant mountaintops while steam curled from the earth beneath my feet. Buffalo owned the road like traffic laws were beneath them, elk grazed in open meadows, and prairie dogs popped in and out of burrows like tiny comedians. Around every single bend, I caught myself saying, “Maybe around the next corner we’ll finally see a moose.” We never did. But I wasn’t disappointed. I was enchanted. Sometimes it’s the possibility that stays with you.

I’ve driven across Ontario watching the landscape shift mile after mile, realizing just how immense Canada truly is. I’ve stood beside the Mississippi River near Davenport, Iowa, thinking about my Grandma Todd and how strangely connected this country can feel. I’ve watched tornadoes forming across distant fields with deep reverence for their power, stood in awe beneath Mount Rushmore, walked Gettysburg where history feels like it’s still breathing, and explored the quiet cascade of Dingmans Falls.

When Ronnie and I moved to Arizona, I experienced that feeling all over again.

I still remember looking out the window as the plane descended into Tucson—mountains rising straight out of the desert floor, saguaros standing like silent guardians beneath an endless blue sky, and palm trees swaying where I’d never imagined they’d grow. Then came my first monsoon. Anyone who has experienced it knows the desert has a scent all its own when that first rain hits the dry earth—earthy, fresh, ancient, and comforting all at once. The desert surprised me. It still does.

I love trying local food when I travel because food tells a story, too. I’ll happily try regional dishes, fresh bread, homemade desserts, or something new… though my curiosity and my stomach definitely have hard boundaries (bugs, rodents, or anything still moving are a firm pass).

I don’t need a house full of things to remember where I’ve been. I bring home the smell of the air, the sound in the distance, the taste of a great meal, the creak of old wooden floors, and the quiet that settles over a place where history happened. You’ll almost always find me with a notebook or an iPad nearby—not because I’m working, but because I’m paying attention. I want to capture things before time softens the edges.

As I get ready for California, I realize this trip isn’t about crossing another destination off a list. It’s another chapter waiting to be lived. Another memory waiting to be made.

Because in the end, I don’t want to measure my life by the things I owned. I want to measure it by the roads I traveled, the people I loved, the sunsets that stopped me in my tracks, and the moments that quietly shaped the woman I was becoming.

Those are the treasures that never gather dust. Those are the souvenirs that never fade.

---

Permission to Live

This is an ongoing memoir of choosing life after merely surviving it. If you’ve ever felt like you’ve been carrying the weight of the world for too long, I hope these words remind you that it’s never too late to reclaim your joy, your curiosity, and your own permission to truly live.

Thank you for walking this journey with me.