The Beach Was Calling… So I Moved: A Midlife Migration Story

I sat at the bar last Saturday night watching a young dude play the saxophone while bachelorette parties stared at their phones instead of talking to each other. A Florida man danced barefoot with his ponytail bouncing from side to side. Tourists drank fruity drinks.

The joint is an open-air bar on the docks where the fishing boats head out at sunrise. The bar will even cook your fish if you bring it.

Earlier that day, I rode my bike to the beach, jumped in the ocean, then rode my bike home. That was cool.

Until two weeks ago, I had lived my entire life in Atlanta, Georgia. Now, I live in Destin, Florida.

Closer.

I’ve had this thought rattling around in my head for the past several years:
If I had the choice, I’d rather wake up and see the ocean every day than wake up and not see the ocean every day.

So here I am—getting closer.

I don’t know if I’ll live here forever, or even for a year. I like to move. Too much, some say. The naysayers.

What I have noticed so far:
People are happier here.
The sun is brighter here.
The ocean is closer here.

We all have inner dreams—to live at the beach, to start a business, to write a book, to buy a trampoline.

To travel to Paris. To ride in a hot air balloon. To own a waterbed.

And yet… most of those dreams die quietly inside us. Why? Who knows. Life I guess.

I often ask adults what their dream is.
Most don’t have one.

But I do.

My dream is to travel the world entertaining people.
To live on a banana farm overlooking the ocean.
To write a bestselling book.
To be a filmmaker.

To see the ocean every day instead of not seeing the ocean every day.

Whatever it is that’s gnawing inside of you—let it out.

Make the move.

It’s your choice.

—Trey