This Isn't Permanent!

Uncovering a revelatory truth about my life, inspired by Liz Gilbert's new memoir.

I just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s new memoir, All the Way to the River.

Sidenote: I’m obsessed. Despite all the negativity and criticism she’s received, I think this book is profoundly honest as well as skillfully loving and lighthearted despite the heavy content. (I’m personally inclined to believe that the patriarchy is so deeply ingrained in most of us that we’re trained to automatically pulverize successful, authentic women with strong voices.)

Anyway, a few nights ago, I stumbled upon a sentence that I ended up reading a few times. She writes:

I once estimated that between the ages of twenty and forty-eight, I lived in approximately twenty different homes.

My first thought was: that’s a lot of homes.

My second thought was: wait… how many homes have I lived in?

So, I got out my journal and made a timeline with all the houses and apartments I’ve lived in since I moved out of my parent’s house at 18 — my college party house on 9th avenue in Greeley, my Bangkok high-rises, my beloved 3-bedroom in-law quarters in Guadalajara… you get the idea.

Well, well, well.

I was shocked to find that in my entire adult life, I have never lived in a single apartment or house for longer than a year. Not once. I, too, have lived in exactly 20 homes over the last 16 years.

I had to take a minute to sit with that. Honestly, I’m still stunned.

Looking at this list, the unspoken motto for my adult life seems to scream: This isn’t permanent!

I have always felt a sense of rootlessness in my life, especially during the years I was teaching abroad. For nearly a decade, I moved from country to country, apartment to apartment, always ready to pack up again and leave most of my things behind. In each of these places, I knew my time was temporary. Despite being back in Colorado for nearly four years now, I’ve kept most of my belongings in storage, as if I might jet off again at any moment.

But the truth I’m tending to right now is this:

I want permanency.

I want to grow roots.

I want to feel settled and safe.

I want home that doesn’t feel so temporary.

I want to give my books and art a home.

I want to let myself stay.

I want to let myself be.

I’ve been craving a sense of settled-ness and rootedness for a long time, and I’ve been wondering:

What kind of momentum would I have if I wasn’t constantly expending my energy hurling myself towards the next house, city, country? What would it be like to dedicate my life to something other than the eternal, exhausting quest for the “perfect” place to call home? What kind of community could I build? What kind of life could unfold if I allowed myself to really be somewhere — and not in a transient way, but a grounded way? What would it be like to grow honest-to-god roots?

I sense that there will be healing and big magic in letting myself settle somewhere — and I’m ready to give that gift to myself. I’m on the cusp of some big changes coming in 2026, the details of which I’ll share later. But right now I can say this:

My next adventure is staying, being, living.