That’s the number of times I’ve moved. Unless, of course, you include all of the mornings I hitched the fifth wheel to the back of the truck (AKA The Beast) and towed our home on wheels to yet another campsite. Or a trailer park. Then my move tally would be somewhere near 97.
But, who’s counting?
Friends marvel that I can pack a house as if I’m in WITSEC. Acquaintances wonder if I grew up in a military family. Or if I have nomadic blood. Or perhaps, whether I am a secret descendent of Bonnie and Clyde…always on the run.
My reality was not nearly as exotic. I grew up in a middle-class family of educators, married a man who was chasing his dreams and followed him blindly. Until I eventually realized the importance of pursuing dreams of my own.
As much as I joke about my talent for constructing a cardboard packing box in under seven seconds, my greatest lessons from those years of drifting have nothing to do with the physical aspects of relocating a home.
Instead, I have become adept at building something from nothing.
I have become an expert at starting over.
My life on the move gave me the tools I needed to begin again. And again.
All of those years spent putting down roots, only to rip them out again gave me an unshakeable faith in the power of new beginnings. I learned that you’re never too old to reinvent yourself.
And it’s never too late to rewrite your story.
Care to join me?