I think I live somewhere between finding peace and sharing my stories so others can heal.

In my first post, I wrote about lying on the marble floor of my bathroom. Looking back now, I see that sorrow was part of my healing. There is a sadness that softens you as you move through trauma… different from the sharp cortisol that comes from feeling confined.

That feeling of being trapped.

When I moved away years ago, my only hesitation about coming back home to the beach was that where I lived gave me autonomy. I remember arriving in that sweet little town, walking into the grocery store knowing no one, watching the trees change color… something you rarely see at the coast. I remember walking across the parking lot, staring at my shoes, and thinking:

I can breathe here.

I’m invisible.

I had never felt that way before my son became sick. I had never felt trapped before. I was well-traveled, social, an extrovert—yet suddenly craving solitude.

That peace slowly shaped me into the healthiest version of myself I’d known. After two years, something shifted. I looked younger. I could cry without my body spiraling. I lost weight. I laughed. I gardened. I healed.

Even in the quiet—and the loneliness—I found my way.

I wondered.

And I wasn’t lost.

Then my twelve-year prayer came true. We moved back home… my boys, my husband, our dog. The life I had begged for. And yet the uprooting stirred something deep in my body. I’ve been overwhelmed. Exhausted. Introverted.

I’m supposed to be doing Dry January, but tonight there were two glasses of wine—and I’m bleeding my heart onto this page. My heart as red as the wine. As bold as its flavor. As warm as the buzz.

I wish I didn’t know sadness.

Do you feel that way too?

It rearranges us. It stops time. And still, we look anywhere but the present… backward or forward… anything but here.

In nine days, we close on a new house. I’m longing for space. Quiet. A home of our own. Across the street stands a white club with black shutters, golf courses wrapping around it… alive with people chasing connection. Twenty-four years ago, I drove to that same place picking up an ex-boyfriend. Time is sneaky like that. It shows you exactly how much you’ve lived.

I hope you’ll stay with me here.

We’ve bought a new home. A new business. We’re living by faith—unable to see the whole path, but still walking it.

So maybe it’s true:

Not all who wonder are lost.

With Love,
Erica
Salty Blonde Living