The House That Was Always Packed

I was born in Covington, Virginia, and the first sound I remember is packing tape. We didn’t move once—we moved like it was a sport. VA → KS → LA → TX → NJ → TX → AL → TN → FL. Every time a new state sign flashed by, I’d think: maybe this is the one where my glasses don’t make me a target and my lunchbox doesn’t say “weird.”.

My eyes started to fail me at a very young age, so I got my first pair of glasses in kindergarten, big and earnest on a face that hadn’t learned to hide yet. Kids can smell “different” like sharks smell blood, and I learned early that my best defense was noticing everything first: exits, cliques, teachers who smiled with their eyes. I loved animals, especially turtles—creatures who travel with their homes on their backs. Coincidence? Not really.

Our family split neatly into preferences that didn’t always fit together. Dad loved everything outdoorsy—hiking, camping, fishing, kayaking—like he needed the sky’s permission to breathe. Mom wasn’t made for dirt trails and campfires, but she lived for her daughters. She wanted us polished, cared for, never lacking the comforts we deserved. She showed love through being our voices, motherly guidance, shopping trips, filling the fridge, and planning vacations that said, “You belong somewhere safe, somewhere comfortable.”

Two different maps of love: one pointing outward to wild rivers, the other pointing inward to warm kitchens and hotel sheets. Both were trying, in their own ways, to keep us from wanting.

In Louisiana, I met Heather, my next-door neighbor who became my mirror and then, mysteriously, my critic. Her family followed us from LA to TX, like a caravan of familiarity rolling over unknown roads. Then one day she turned against me—no disagreement, just a rearrangement of who we were. That’s the thing about childhood: people can move out of your life without changing houses.

The only constant was my Mom and Dad. She had a passionate ability to love and nurture. A niche for making a house a home. The energy to keep her girls busy. And advice she learned through her own experiences. He had the quiet confidence of someone who believed the trail would reveal itself. With him, I learned how to pitch a tent, untangle fishing line, and decide when to stop trying to untangle anything at all. We’d sit on a riverbank, and he’d say, “If the water’s moving, you’re not stuck.” I held onto that sentence like a rope.

By the time we reached Florida, my muscles knew the choreography of leaving: purge, pack, promise to write, start over. High school in Cape Coral felt like the last stop on a train that had lost track of time. I wasn’t the funny kid or the pretty one; I was the girl who could read a room like a map. If you needed an ally, I’d silently slide over. If you wanted to be mean, I’d go turtle—soft on the inside, hard shell forward.

Here’s what constant motion taught me: home isn’t a place; it’s a practice. It’s the way you talk to yourself when the boxes show up again. It’s learning what to keep (a worn sweatshirt, a dad’s advice, a mom’s relentless care) and what to leave behind (someone else’s version of you).

I still love turtles. I still notice exits. And I still believe that if the water’s moving, maybe I’m not stuck—I’m just on my way.