Becoming Home

We didn’t know exactly how long we would be gone when we left. We didn’t even know exactly where we were going.

We booked the first month and had an idea: instead of traveling quickly from place to place, we would bring our dog and our belongings, buy a car over there somehow, and stay in apartments and Airbnbs for a month or more at a time. We wanted to actually live in these places—to find our regular bakery, local market, learn enough of the language to get by, and experience some version of ordinary life.

There was also a question underneath the adventure: Could one of these places eventually become home?

At one point, we made it about halfway through the process of getting a Spanish visa and seriously considered settling there. But life changed, and we realized there were things we still wanted to return to and finish in the States before making that decision.

So instead, we kept going.

What started as a two-month experiment in Mexico became nearly three years abroad around Western Europe and the UK.

There was something freeing about not knowing exactly where it would lead. We were giving ourselves the opportunity to experience enough of the world to see what might happen.

Eventually, moving every one to three months became strangely normal.

Because we worked American hours, mornings often belonged to wherever we happened to be living. We could walk through town, taking Leo everywhere with us [dogs are welcome almost everywhere around the EU], find a café, explore a neighborhood, meet our neighbors, and slowly pick up the rhythm of everyday life.

Then we worked in the evenings, and weekends were for exploring farther away.

It allowed us to experience more than we ever could have fit into vacations. We weren’t just passing through these places; for a little while, we were living there.

But there was another side to it.

Over time, constant movement became exhausting. Leo became sick, eventually developing a chronic illness, and finding veterinary care in each new country became increasingly difficult. Regular life still happened: we needed doctors, car maintenance, groceries, workspaces, and all the mundane things that are relatively simple when you know where everything is.

Eventually, we started longing for surprisingly ordinary things.

A closet, our own bathroom, a consistent bed.

Somewhere we could put our things down and simply leave them there.

And somehow, no matter what country we were in, we repeatedly made the same mistake: deciding we were ready for lunch at about 3 p.m.

I cannot tell you how many times we were hungry at 3 p.m. with absolutely nowhere open to feed us.

It was exhausting.

It was also ridiculously amazing.

And I would do it all again.

Before we left, I thought I would share everything.

I had spent years building my social media presence, and suddenly we were going to be doing all of these incredible things. I remember thinking, Well, now I’ll have endless content.

Within about a week, I barely cared about social media at all.

I took thousands of photographs and videos, but mostly for us. I wanted to remember. Even now, scrolling through those photographs lights me up inside in a way that’s difficult to explain.

What stayed with me most wasn’t necessarily a list of landmarks. It was sensory.

Every place seemed to have its own color palette.

Scotland was green hills, dense forests, mist, cliffs and wind. Looking over Flodigarry on the Isle of Skye remains one of the most remarkable views I have ever seen. I’ve always joked that I’m wind-powered; being somewhere wild and windy makes me feel incredibly alive.

Portugal was black stone beaches, enormous waves and sunsets around Peniche so intensely pink and purple that if I painted them accurately, they would almost look fake.

Spain became deeply familiar: the language, culture, food and warmth. Along the Costa Brava and into the south of France, I felt surrounded by art, textiles, architecture, texture and history.

France was pinks and beiges, zinc and Haussmann buildings, jazz, bread, art, rain in Paris and a particular kind of beauty I never tired of looking at.

I miss…

The smell of the air. The changing wind. The food. The stunning landscapes outside our windows.

Church bells.

I heard church bells so consistently that eventually they simply became part of everyday life.

Now I don’t hear them anymore. And I notice.

It took about eight months before I felt ready to take on something new.

For several months, life was mostly about stabilizing: building new patterns, taking care of ourselves, figuring out the immediate next step, and getting settled into an apartment in the Denver area.

Then something started happening.

It felt like my brain and my spirit were coming back online.

I had spent years accumulating experiences, photographs, colors, landscapes, ideas, and stories. Once I finally stopped moving long enough to process them, it felt like all of it was suddenly bursting out of me.

I needed to make something from it.

I didn’t want nearly three years of our lives to fade into a memory without being fully acknowledged.

The experience had changed too much about the way I saw the world.

That is when Becoming Home really began.

Interestingly, all of that movement also made me want stability more than I had before. I want a physical home where we can unpack, care for ourselves and our family, and build something lasting.

But I don’t want the adventure to stop.

Because those things aren’t opposites.

Home doesn’t have to mean staying still.

And adventure doesn’t always require leaving.

For now, some of mine has become this.

Coming home created space for something else that had been waiting for me, too.

Alongside this exhibition, I’m preparing to release my debut historical fiction novel.

Writing and painting are very different experiences for me. Painting is physical and completely immersive. Writing allows me to spend years inside another time and place, a different life altogether.

But underneath both, I think I’m asking many of the same questions.

How does the world we’re born into shape us?

What do we inherit?

What do we question?

What do we choose?

And who do we become as a result?

After returning to the States, I realized I didn’t want to keep waiting for the “right” path or the “right” time to put the book into the world. It took me three years to write, edit, revise, and revise again.

Just like this exhibition, the book became another way of taking something that had existed privately for years and now finally allowing other people to experience it.

So now it’s time to make it real.