Support my mission, travel, and outreach with a tip on Venmo or PayPal.
The Move to Florida
When I started Sidewalk Science Center 7 years ago, I never realized the impacts that would eventually result years down the road. While me personally running SSC is drawing to a close, I’ve begun settling more and more into the Hiking Astronomer identity, and it’s helping me to take on a new voice where I always felt more restricted in my SSC role.
I really didn’t assess my move to Florida in 2018. While I absolutely loved Savannah, Georgia and would 100% live there again in a heartbeat, I did leave for a reason. Living in Florida, became a new adventure that quickly lost its luster for me: the flat terrain, the lack of varied hiking trails, the constant heat, the endless summer rain; I was bored within months.
Then came COVID, and the massive increase in cost of living, which my area was already leading country-wide: Lakewood Ranch was the fastest-growing community in the country two or three years straight, and base cost of homes in the area went from $200,000 to $600,000 virtually overnight.
In the span of two years, my apartment went from $1500/month to $1900/month, and in the third year, became $2600/month – at which point I left because no way in hell could I even pretend to afford that.
Through a series of bad decisions that saved my butt later down the road, I ended up renting a house with a friend for two years. Even so, half the rent payment was $1300/month, with utilities adding on another $300. Stack that onto student loan payments, cereal that cost $10/box at good ol’ Publix, and making one of the lowest teaching salaries in the country, and you quickly realize how unaffordable Florida truly is to live unless you’re retired with great benefits or working remotely in tech sectors.
Working in education in Florida is a joke, really.
Why I’m Leaving Florida
I already found Florida unattractive, and the sheer financial stress was an additional massive burden. Then there’s the rampant deforestation and draining of wetlands, evisceration of wildlife habitat, and the fact the entire coast along the Gulf of Mexico is nothing but a giant metropolis of cookie cutter towns and monoculture “masterplan communities” that spend a week underwater when hurricanes hit due to the aforementioned deforestation and wetland draining.
Did I mention that Rodney Barreto, the chairman of the FWC, is a millionaire who is one of the top investors in Florida’s development and real estate markets, and back in April he defended his recent developer investments tearing across Florida ecosystems by saying, “I’m in the business of making money.”
The chair of the Fish and Wildlife Commission should not make statements like that.
Some people told me if I moved, I would feel the same way wherever I lived. That I would get bored. That I would be restless. That I would want to move again and again, because the grass is always greener on the other side. I should just stay in Florida and take trips out to those other places, because I’ll never be satisfied.
They were wrong. One way or another, Florida was beating me down, wearing me out, making me hate everything. I was living to work and just barely making ends meet with the crushing combination of exorbitant rent and high cost of living – even though I shopped exclusively at Aldi and could get triple the groceries than you could buy for the same cost at Publix. I wasn’t restless for no reason: I was withering in Florida, slowly succumbing, waiting to break.
I visited Everglades National Park out of sheer obligation once I knew I was leaving Florida for good with no desire to come back. While I didn’t do the water-based experience of the park, what Everglades was, to me, was more of the same as the rest of Florida. Flat terrain, open prairies, cut-and-paste trails and camping. I enjoyed kayaking with friends when I could, but I almost never went to the beach, especially alone.
Florida was not, and never will be, me.
This isn’t a “never say never” situation. I know what I want. I know where I feel alive. I know I need my cold, my overcast days, my moody forests and trickles of warm sunshine breaking through the cold air beyond the trees. I need my mountains, my rugged trails, my snowcapped peaks and frigid streams flowing from glacial melt. I need my grand vistas across tree-covered mountains, my lap of waves upon the shores of lakes, my dark night skies and perfectly quiet mornings.
Above all else, I need my favorite sound in the world: the howl of wind through the treetops in an alpine forest.
I left Florida not for hating it, but because I was a square peg being forced into a round hole, slowly being chipped away to make me fit, all the while losing my identity and independence. My wanderlust stemmed not from wishing I was somewhere better, but from feeling detached from the place I was in.
Permanent Move, or Something Else?
Back in January when I found out I was speaking at the conferences in Idaho, I didn’t have a plan to leave Florida. Like the summer of 2024, I began planning for an extended trip, something to do what those people always told: visit, and then return.
By the end of February, I decided I wanted to finally break out of Florida during this trip and move to the PNW where my heart and soul reside.
It wasn’t until late June that I realized one more time…maybe settling down in one place again isn’t for me. Not for now, at least. Today, July 3rd, marks the 46th day in a row that I’ve been traveling, on my current 10-day stint in Sedona, Arizona to host sidewalk astronomy before moving on to Phoenix next week. I’d originally planned this trip to be 111 days, ending on September 6th before moving up to Washington State outside Portland, OR.
Now, for several weeks, I’ve leaned more heavily into simply not stopping. That maybe for a year or two or three or more? Maybe I could live like this a while. Travel. Host astronomy. Meet people from all around the country. Write my books. Do photography.
Live. Explore. Create.
I already spend so much time outside of the apartments and houses I rent that it’s basically a waste of money. I need somewhere to sleep and occasionally shower. Everything else, I can get….everywhere else.
As a result, I’ve started seriously considering do the whole “vanlife” thing. It would look a little different from most, being that my current line of work requires physical materials (telescopes, equipment, and photo stock), but it seems to be a natural next step. I’ve lived mostly out of my car these past 46 days and hosted more than a dozen sidewalk astronomy sessions during the past two Moon cycles. As planetary season slides closer, I’ll be able to regularly host more sessions in more cities, at will, without needing to come back to a “home base” of sorts.
Next Step Comes Next Week
I’m still working through details, but am confident that, yes, I can make this work. And without the $1600/month rent payment looming over me (a significant source of stress), I know I can relax and pay the bills I do have without the worry of not having enough for rent or vice versa. Doing this, in essence, should improve my quality of life mentally and emotionally in the medium to long term. In the short term, the van (a 2013 Ford Transit Connect) will be the largest expense, plus some minimal additions to suit it up for living.
I doubt I’ll do a full build for several months; that will come with time. I have to make sure I know the exact space I have for boxes and telescope equipment, whether that’s inside the van, attached to the back, or even on the roof. Who knows. I’ll get it figured out, and life will go from there.
I don’t see a reason not to try.
This world is beautiful.
Alex
Follow me on Instagram, Facebook, Tiktok, or YouTube
Purchase my photography prints
Support my mission, travel, and outreach with a tip on Venmo or PayPal.
Leave a Reply