Well, the house sold and we moved to Florida with the humble expectations. I thought I would become one of those breezy coastal women who wear linen, drink iced tea on the lanai, and say things like, “The gulf breeze is lovely today,” without looking like they’ve been steamed in a vegetable basket.
I had a dream. I had a vision.
There would be palm trees. There would be sunsets. There would be cute sandals and soft coastal colors and maybe a relaxed version of me who no longer felt personally attacked by every drawer, deadline, or dust bunny.
What I failed to account for was humidity.
Humidity in Florida is not weather. It is a relationship. It arrives early, stands too close, touches your hair without permission, and follows you into the house like it owns the place.
My hair, which has had many personalities over the years, has now entered what I can only describe a hostile takeover. It no longer reports to me. Some mornings I fix it with optimism and by noon it has disintegrated into a shape that suggests I have either been slicked down, or my hair is trying to communicate with the afterlife, or I’ve just simply been lightly electrocuted.
There are women here who glide through summer looking fresh and effortless. I, on the other hand, walk from the front door to the mailbox and return looking like I have completed a 26 mile marathon.
And still, some cheerful person will say, “At least there’s a breeze!”
A breeze?
Darling, that is not a breeze. That is the very breath of a fire breathing dragon singing my eyebrows off.
Still, I came here for the palm trees. And despite the humidity, the frizz, the surprise expenses, the moving disaster, the renovations, and the many moments when I stared at a wall and thought, “This house has plot twists.” I am still glad I came.
Not every dream arrives dressed like a dream.
Sometimes a dream arrives late, sweaty, over budget, and carrying a box labeled “miscellaneous” that contains nothing you recognize and one thing that smells suspicious. Sometimes your fresh start needs plumbing work.
But then, just when I am ready to declare myself officially too old for “adventures,” I look out the window and see a palm tree swaying like it knows something I don’t. I step outside in the lovely evening, when the sun softens and the sky turns that impossible Florida pink and gold, and for a minute, everything quiets down. The house is still unfinished. The to-do list is still rude. My hair is still making choices I cannot support.
But there is beauty here.
There is a lizard on the entryway screen acting all belligerent. There is the sound of ceiling fans inside humming like a hymn. There is my husband, my dog, this strange new life, and the stubborn little spark inside me that keeps whispering, “Keep going. You’re not done yet.”
Maybe that’s what a fresh start really is.
Not a perfectly staged coastal fantasy with matching pillows and cooperative bangs.
Maybe it’s deciding, again and again, that you can still belong to a place that has not yet become easy. Maybe it’s learning how to laugh while you sweat. Maybe it’s buying better hair clips, forgiving the mess, and letting the palm trees remind you that beauty does not always ask permission before growing sideways.
So yes, I came to Florida for the palm trees.
But I stayed for the air conditio
ning.
And the sunsets.
And the possibility that somewhere beneath this humidity, this frizz, this chaos, and this half-renovated life, I am becoming breezy after all.
