Gypsy Soul

“My momma always said I had a gypsy soul. That I was made for wandering."

My momma always said I had a gypsy soul. That I was made for wandering.

And maybe that’s true. I’ve always felt the pull for change—not chaos, but motion. A quiet ache for something else, something next. I don’t fear it. I look for it. I’ve moved houses, cities, jobs. It’s always felt natural. Necessary, even.

Right before the world shut down, I felt it again. That hum under the surface. The one that says, it’s time. I convinced my husband to sell almost everything, store what we couldn’t part with, and hit the road. No big plan, just the two of us and the wide open. We became nomads.

It lasted longer than we expected. And I loved it. The freedom. The discovery. The feeling of being in motion, of slipping into new rhythms. It felt like living with the edges peeled back. Like the world was more honest when I wasn’t rooted.

Eventually, he was ready to settle. And I honored that. We found a place, planted again. And here we are—almost three years in. Safe. Settled.

But lately, I’ve been feeling it again. That itch. That stir. Only this time, it feels different.

This time, it’s quieter. Not a rush to leave, but a slow-burning question. Am I searching because I’m meant to wander? Or because I’ve never truly felt found?

Maybe it’s not a gypsy soul at all. Maybe it’s an uncontested one. One that’s always been a little out of place. One that hasn’t quite found where it belongs, or who really understands it.

And maybe… that’s what all this change has been about. Not finding the next place. But trying to find myself.

What if that’s what I’ve been chasing all along?