My mother’s spirit was restless—a wild, untamed flame fueled by the need to roam, to chase some elusive version of nirvana. She was a true wanderer, driven by a deep hunger for freedom that overshadowed everything else, even the stability of motherhood. Growing up, my life was shaped by her endless moves and restless heart, and the story of my childhood is one of constant motion, uncertain shelter, and the search for a place to belong.
I was seven when I first truly noticed the chaos around me. We lived in a crumbling Victorian house in rural Pennsylvania—once a grand “painted lady,” now weathered and faded, split into two cramped units with our family occupying the upper floor. From the living room window, a red brick church with a nearby cemetery stared back at me, eerie and silent. I was both fascinated and frightened, imagining ghosts wandering just beyond the glass. My mother, with her penchant for the mystical, claimed she heard footsteps in empty rooms and the attic door creaking open on its own. Those stories haunted my nights; every creak and whisper felt supernatural, as if the spirits of the dead were watching us.
But before I could fully settle into that eerie chapter, my mother’s wanderlust called her westward. Without a proper goodbye, we packed up our lives and set off in a drab, early ’70s station wagon—its faded green color reminiscent of rotten avocado or worn shag carpet. The car became our home for what seemed like forever, though in reality it was only a few weeks.
The trip was a blur of dusty highways and passing rest stops, where I remember washing my hair in icy well water, longing for something as simple as a Motel 6 and a warm bed. My sister and I clung to each other for entertainment, playing endless games and trying to survive the cramped space and mounting tension. Our mother’s boyfriend acted like a stern stepdad, but to me and my sister, we were just burdens in a car full of dreams and desperation.
When we finally reached Visalia, California, the reality of our situation hit hard. There was no glamorous coast awaiting us, just the harsh truth of poverty. We stayed in a shelter, then a tiny, dingy apartment next to a noisy freeway. The hum of traffic became the soundtrack to my nights, and school was a strange new world where I struggled to make friends but excelled academically. I still remember the bittersweet moment of being invited to breakfast at Denny’s as a reward—only to find out later it was a charity gesture based on our poverty, not my grades. The sting of that realization lingered for years, making me ashamed of the very thing that defined my childhood.
The year 1980 brought a whirlwind of change—the era of green bell bottoms and the shocking news that John Lennon, a symbol of my mother’s countercultural dreams, had been killed. I didn’t understand the full weight of his death, but I felt my mother’s grief like a shadow over our small family. Soon after, she packed us up again, driven by that relentless need to keep moving.
This time, the road led to the coast. Black’s Beach, with its wild cliffs and salty air, became our sanctuary. Standing there, looking out over the vast Pacific, I glimpsed the freedom my mother chased—the intoxicating blend of nature’s beauty and a carefree spirit. The beach was famous for its nude sunbathers, and though it embarrassed me at first, I eventually felt the liberating energy of being in a place where societal rules faded away.
We settled in Ocean Beach, a bohemian haven of incense, open-air markets, and eclectic shops. It was a community that finally seemed to fulfill my mother’s dream of “free” living—a place where hippie ideals and daily life mingled naturally.
Reflecting on that turbulent childhood, I’m often amazed I survived the uncertainty and chaos. Yet in a photo I recently found, I see a young girl perched atop our old wagon, engrossed in her diary, filling pages with poems, thoughts, and song lyrics. That girl believed everything would be okay. She dreamed of a future shaped by her own voice and words, a future where she would be whole.
As I grew, I came to understand my mother’s restless heart and even embraced her mantra: “Anything’s possible.” There is a powerful freedom in living in the moment, trusting yourself, and daring to take risks. Though my childhood was far from stable, my mother taught me an invaluable lesson—pursuing happiness and joy, no matter how winding the road.
Now that I’m a mother myself, I’ve found a way to balance freedom with responsibility. I call it “freedom with intention.” Unlike my mother’s impulsive wanderings, my journey is more measured—full of love, adventure, and joy, without uprooting my daughter’s life every few months. She has never faced the anxiety of being the new kid or the pain of missing me at her games and performances.
My daughter has always come first, and that makes all the difference. She has a home filled with steady love and a mother who, while inspired by the same free spirit, knows how to ground her dreams in a way that doesn’t leave a child feeling lost.
My mother’s search for nirvana shaped me in profound ways—sometimes challenging, sometimes beautiful. It was a journey through uncertainty, poverty, and endless horizons, but it was also a lesson in courage and the relentless pursuit of freedom. And as I walk my own path, I carry her spirit with me—not as a restless wanderer, but as a woman who knows that freedom, when balanced with care, can create a life filled with love, purpose, and joy.
