Exactly one year ago today, I crossed the Florida state line with two dogs, two cats, and a car packed with everything I could fit.
I thought I was just chasing sunshine. But it turns out, I was chasing healing.
After living in New Jersey for almost my entire life, I was ready for a change. The thought of another winter scraping ice off my windshield while wearing seventeen layers made me want to hibernate indefinitely. Florida felt like the natural next step, sunshine, beaches, and my mom, who had been living here for years.
So I sold my house, purged half my belongings, and drove south. It was bittersweet, exciting, terrifying, liberating.
I didn’t know it then, but that drive was much more than just a relocation. It was a rebirth.
The Beginning: Hope, Boxes, and Humidity
When I arrived, I was equal parts exhausted and optimistic. I crashed in a temporary apartment, living out of boxes because I knew I’d be moving again soon. Within 48 hours, I was touring houses with my mom like a woman on a mission.
I looked at 8 houses and ended up putting in an offer on the first house I looked at. I closed on my new home in November. By Thanksgiving, I was painting walls, unpacking boxes, and trying to make things feel like home.
Florida, I quickly learned, does not mess around. The hard water attacked my hair, the humidity attacked my will to style it, and the bugs? I swear they’re from another dimension. But the weather was everything I hoped for. My friends in New Jersey were wearing sweaters and hoodies and here I was, in shorts, flip flops, and tank tops.
Those first few weeks were sweet. My mom and I spent lots of time together thrifting for furniture, trying new restaurants, laughing at how everything here moves just a little slower. It finally felt like I was where I was supposed to be.
The Unthinkable: When the New Beginning Became Grief
Things were going pretty well for the first month or so that I was in Florida. And then, life happened.
In early December, my mom was hospitalized for a blood pressure issue. Her medical team accidentally discovered a large mass on her ovary. The words ‘ovarian cancer’ stopped everything.
We celebrated Christmas, not having any idea at the time that it would be my mom’s last. Between doctors’ appointments, tests, and treatments, life became a blur. Her oncologist was optimistic at first, but her body was tired. Too tired.
Within weeks, she needed help walking around, going to the bathroom, and preparing meals. My days became a balancing act: therapist by day, caregiver by night. My evenings were spent at her house, helping, worrying, surviving.
There was no space for self-care or sleep. I was running on caffeine and autopilot.
And then, in what felt like an instant, he was gone.
Hospice. A week. A goodbye I never wanted to say.
Suddenly Florida, the place I’d come to start over, just felt like the place where everything fell apart.
The Quiet After the Storm
After my mom passed, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt empty, hollow, angry, sad. My days, once jam-packed, now stretched out in front of me: quiet, lonely, and strange.
I tried to go through the motions, journaling, eating better, walking the dogs, but it all felt empty. Some days, just taking a shower felt like an accomplishment.
But grief, as brutal as it is, eventually softens just enough to let a little light in.
I started noticing that light again in small ways: the warmth of the morning sun, my pets’ quiet company, the familiar comfort of my journal. Slowly, piece by piece, I began rebuilding routines that felt like me again.
The Unexpected Healers
And then one day in July, I tried paddle boarding.
I went into it expecting disaster. I was tired, sad, and not exactly known for balance. But something about the idea of being on the water called to me, so I said yes.
Shockingly, I didn’t fall in.
Instead, I stood there, sun on my face, paddle in hand, surrounded by the sound of the water and the quiet hum of nature. My brain, that anxious, overthinking part that never shuts up, finally went silent.
That first hour on the board was the most peace I’d felt in months. It was meditative, grounding, and weirdly spiritual. I found myself breathing again, deeply, fully, something I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten how to do.
I didn’t expect paddle boarding to become my therapy, but it did. No couch, no questions, just me, the water, and the slow rhythm of healing.
What Florida Has Taught Me (So Far)
This past year has been nothing like I expected. It’s been heartbreak and healing, growth and grief, a messy combination of both.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
- You can’t outrun yourself, but you can meet yourself somewhere new. A change of scenery doesn’t fix everything, but it gives you space to start fresh.
- Grief doesn’t disappear in the sunshine, but the light helps. Somehow, crying under a palm tree feels softer than crying in the snow.
- Healing is not linear. Some days you’re paddle boarding like a Zen goddess, other days you’re eating chips in bed at 2 p.m. Both are valid.
- You don’t have to “have it all figured out.” Sometimes surviving the day is the win.
- Paddle boarding counts as both therapy and cardio, and yes, that matters.
One Year Later
A year ago, I packed up my whole life searching for something new. I found grief, but I also found growth, resilience, and moments of peace I didn’t think were possible, and more mosquito bites than I can count.
But I also found myself again: in the quiet mornings, the salty air, the endless water.
Here’s to year two: more paddle boarding, more peace, more sunshine, and maybe fewer mosquitoes (fingers crossed).
If you’re ready to take your own gentle first step, I’d love to invite you to subscribe to my newsletter. You will receive a free download of my 5-Day Self-Care Reset Plan. It’s a simple way to start making space for yourself again, in just five minutes a day.
Feel free to visit my Etsy shop for resources to help you on your journey. I also have a free private self-care interactive Facebook group for women that you can join here.
Follow me on socials:
Leave a Reply