The Strange Way Leaving Home Taught Me Where I Actually Belong
The unexpected gift of finding roots in people, not geography.
Each summer, my family packs up our life and leaves home for three months.
We fold up the school year, shove the backpacks and spelling tests into a box marked “Later” and board a boat that doesn’t just take us across water, but into another version of our life entirely. One quarter of our year spent in an alternate timeline. A slower, saltier version of ourselves. It’s not just a vacation, it’s a full life pivot. We trade in busy school schedules for tide charts. The bedtimes blur. The line between pajamas and swimsuits becomes negotiable. Breakfasts stretch into all day snacking.
And every single year, I think: this, this is what life is supposed to feel like.
Eight weeks of our island living just ended… Eight weeks of agate hunting and sun chapped cheeks. Of kids so dirty with joy that they looked like wild animals by bedtime. We lived every day reaching for excitement with all available limbs. We spent countless trips chasing each other through the grass that connects us. And once again, we leave the island changed. Stretched… Sand still clinging to the corners of our car, and to our souls. (…and every washing machine we’ve used since)
But here’s the real miracle: it’s not just the island. It’s the people.
I didn’t grow up with this kind of foundation. I didn’t know community could be chosen, let alone feel this safe. Relationships back then were like tightropes, held up by performance and shame. Acceptance wasn’t something you could earn, no matter how much you bled yourself trying. Until recently I didn’t even dare to dream this big.
So maybe I walk around a little more wide eyed than most. Maybe my awe is disproportionate. But to find myself here, in this life where I am loved and seen in ways I didn’t think were possible, it cracks me open with gratitude.
Because here’s what I know now: community isn’t a location. It’s not a zip code or a Sunday dinner. It’s an intention. It’s a series of choices made by people who keep showing up, even when the signal’s weak but the connection is strong where it counts. And for those of us who grew up untethered, those of us who didn’t know what it felt like to be held without condition, this is a revolution.
I’m rewriting my story now. Finding my worth in places that don’t require me to earn it. I’m letting go of the old belief that I have to prove myself into people’s lives. And somewhere between tide pools and the trampoline, I’ve made friends with people I once thought I wasn’t good enough to orbit. Turns out, I belong here. Turns out, I always did.
To live in two worlds, and feel held in both, is something I will never take for granted. Every summer we uproot. And every summer we are replanted. Our lives divide and converge like braided rivers. And somehow, both streams feel whole. Both homes are true. Both rhythms are real. That dual belonging is rare. Almost miraculous. But it’s not magic. It’s the people who make it so. The ones who carry the thread across seasons, across miles. The ones who bend with our leaving and hold steady for our return.
It looks like an emergency boat ride in the middle of the night. It looks like a friend tending our house like it’s a starring role. It looks like someone texting “got your kids” before I even ask. It looks like shared silence on the deck when the words are too heavy. It looks like being known by the way I sigh. It looks like people who don’t flinch when I’m not fine, who don’t disappear when I pull back. It looks like friends who hold your grief as gently as your joy. It looks like someone’s mom saying, “I’ll be yours too, if you ever need.” It looks like a dock full of people waving as our boat pulls out, simply because they remembered.
This, I think, is the truest kind of community. Not the kind that insists on your constant presence, but the kind that holds shape in your absence. The kind that remembers who you are when you forget. The kind that holds steady through your chaos, your leaving, your return. The kind that sends you off with open arms and already has the porch light on.
To live inside this rhythm, to be held so fully in two places at once, has shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. It has softened the sharp edges I didn’t know I was carrying. It has stretched me wider than I believed I could go. That kind of love has changed everything for me. And I will never stop being grateful for it.
Goodbye for Now, Blakely Island. We’ll Carry You With Us Until We Return.
Until Next Season!
The End.
If you’ve read these all the way through, thank you. Truly. This whole Blakely Portal writing experiment was unexpected for me. Putting myself out there in this way, sharing not just stories but the raw threads underneath them. And shocker: nothing catastrophic happened. I wasn’t roasted at the stake for daring to share my thoughts.
What I started Sacral Blueprint for was Human Design. A place to share my passion, to root into this system that keeps lighting me up. I don’t know exactly what shape this space will take next, but now that this summer portal has closed, I feel myself heading in that direction.
I still have two more weeks of summer recap to share and then we’ll be fully back in the present. Kids officially back in school, me with a little more time and space to wait out my waves and follow the yes that holds steady.
What I’ve learned through this practice is that sharing glimpses of my internal dialogue has set me free in ways I didn’t even realize I was holding myself back. And I’m so looking forward to seeing what unfolds when I keep saying yes to that freedom.
Stay tuned…
xx,
Jenn