Climbing ladders just high enough to stay trapped.
Overpriced apartment.
Overpriced drinks.
Overpriced meals.
Consumerism wrapped in ambition, sold as success.
It consumed me.
And somewhere along the way, I forgot the things that ever made me feel whole.
The ocean.
Salt air.
Sunset.
Music.
Freedom.
Not financial status—financial freedom.
Not prestige—peace.
I don’t want slide decks.
I don’t want last-minute meetings.
I don’t want Jim pacing holes through the boardroom carpet while everyone pretends the numbers mean something.
I don’t want a 9-to-5 cage dressed up as a career.
I want sunburned shoulders.
Callused hands.
Water under my feet.
Music that doesn’t need approval.
So when I board the plane weeks later—condo sold, loose ends tied, notebook in my backpack—I don’t feel like I’m fleeing.
I feel like I’m stepping into my own life for the first time.
The Bahamas smell like salt and citrus and possibility.
I don’t rush anything.
I rent a small place near the water. Take work where I can. Learn the rhythms. Learn the names of the winds. Learn how little I actually need.
One afternoon, wandering with nowhere to be, I duck into a secondhand shop tucked between a dive bar and a bait store.
It’s dusty. Quiet.
And there it is.
