pensacola

Between Two Homes: A Love Letter to Pensacola

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A couple taking a selfie in a cozy kitchen setting, smiling and enjoying their time together.
Ready for the roadtrip!
A woman wearing sunglasses and a colorful striped sweater smiles at the camera, standing outside in Gulf Shores, Alabama, with trees and a parked car in the background.
We’re here!

I’m from Logansport, Indiana. But at 24—fresh out of college—I packed up my life and moved to Pensacola, Florida. What was supposed to be just the next chapter ended up becoming a whole damn book.

I lived there for eight years. Eight years of becoming, unraveling, rebuilding, and becoming again.

Pensacola is where I worked my first real “adult” job as an elementary school teacher (an adventure in every possible definition). It’s where I burned out, quit, went back, burned out again. It’s where I started thinking seriously about law school and studied for the LSAT while working at a few different law firms that showed me what life could look like on the other side of a classroom.

It’s where I made my second family. Lifelong friends. People who changed my life and kept me going. I lived so much life there.

And now, I’m back in Indiana. I’ve been home for a year—close to family, grounded in ways I didn’t know I needed. And I’m happy. Truly.

But I miss Pensacola.
Like, ache-in-my-chest miss it.

A group of three friends taking a selfie inside a car, smiling at the camera with sunglasses on. The car interior is visible, along with drinks in cup holders. A caption reads '30 minutes out!!'.
Almost there with my travel buddies, Mike and my boyfriend, Brooks

This week I’m on a short vacation in Gulf Shores, Alabama. It’s only 30 minutes from Pensacola, and the second I stepped out into the warm, humid air, it hit me. That Gulf breeze, the smell of saltwater—it’s like my soul recognized it before I did.

I’m planning to go back to Pensacola at least once—probably twice—while I’m here. The first trip is already set. I have a 3:30 hair appointment with Tasha, the only person I’ve let touch my hair since right before the pandemic. Even after moving away, I haven’t let anyone else near it. I saw her last summer when I came down to pack up my house on Main and E Street—a house I deeply loved.

So yeah. I’m making a whole day of it.
No alarm. Just vibes.

I’ll probably hit up one (or two, let’s be real) of my favorite downtown coffee shops. I might grab an açaí bowl from Bodacious Brew, go on long walks, maybe even walk by my old house at 615 South E Street. It’ll be bittersweet, no doubt.

Especially because—I kid you not—I accidentally had a bunch of packages shipped there recently. (Oops.)

A laptop and a sketchbook are placed on a grassy surface, accompanied by a striped blanket and a pen, with a flower pressed inside the sketchbook.
Clovers are my favorite flower

Two telescopes.
Some Anthropologie clothes I’d been so excited to wear on this trip.
All sent to my old address. But then something beautiful happened…

The woman who lives there now found me on Facebook.

She’s from Cuba, and we’ve been communicating using a translator app. She’s so kind. She told me her family is new to the U.S. and they’ve just moved in. We’ve made a plan for me to come pick up my things, and honestly, I’m really looking forward to meeting her. It feels like a full-circle moment in some strange, magical way.

The kicker? She messaged me the same day I left for this trip. The timing? Wild.

Close-up of a knee with two small stones placed on it, one heart-shaped and the other oval, next to an open sketchbook with pens lying on top and a painted background featuring sun and abstract designs.
A moment of my entertainment/technology for the trip down

And while Gulf Shores is nice, it’s not quite Pensacola. It’s more touristy, less diverse, a little too polished around the edges. But the air? The air still feels like home. It wraps around me like a memory.

I’ve cried a little already, not gonna lie. I miss Pensacola so much.
But I’m also grateful—for both places. For everything they gave me.

I wish I could live in both at once.
But for now, I’ll settle for a visit, some sunshine, and a fresh haircut.

Pensacola, I’ll see you soon. I still love you.

A woman and a man sitting on a red wooden bench, both smiling at the camera. The woman is wearing a multicolored striped sweater and the man is dressed in a white shirt and beige shorts. There are palm trees in the background.
A woman smiling while perched on a tree branch, wearing a colorful striped sweater and shorts, with a waterway and a house visible in the background.

Tags: Pensacola, Homecoming, Travel, Reflections, Moving, Life After Teaching, Gratitude, Friendship, Second Home, Hairdresser Loyalty, Small Moments, Big Feelings

If you’ve ever felt caught between two places you love, I’d love to hear your story. Drop a comment or send me a message. 💛

🌾🌊 To the Wild Things That Know Me: Love for Northern Indiana and Northwest Pensacola

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Some places raise you. Some places catch you when you fall. And if you’re lucky, you get to carry both in your heart forever.

A person stands on a sandy beach near a body of water, with trees in the background and a bright blue sky. They are wearing a black jacket and shorts, making a playful gesture with their hands.
A person walking along a sandy trail surrounded by greenery and sunlight, casting a long shadow.

Dear Northern Indiana and Northwest Pensacola,

I’ve lived between your breaths—one crisp and cornfield-sweet, the other warm and briny with salt and pine. I know your moods like my own. I’ve memorized the way the sky folds down at dusk in both places, different colors, same comfort.

Northern Indiana,
You raised me in quiet meadows and long stretches of farmland. Your trees stood like sentinels, and your silence taught me how to listen. I still dream of the way snow falls here—thick, hushed, and holy—and how the wind cuts so clean it feels like starting over. Your fields are empty but never lonely. Your sunsets stretch for miles, soft and slow, like they’re in no rush to leave.

You were my first lesson in stillness. In patience. In how beauty can look plain at first—until you stay long enough to notice the wildflowers on the roadside, the frost patterns on a February window, the way the stars show off on clear nights. You taught me how to pay attention.

I’m back here now—home again in the place that built me. And I love it more than I ever did before. Maybe I had to leave to see you clearly. Maybe I had to grow up to realize you were never as small or quiet as I thought. You are rich with memory and meaning. You are peace and place.

And then there’s you, Northwest Pensacola.
You who welcomed me later, when my heart was tired and hungry for warmth. You gave me open skies and Spanish moss, sandy trails and birds that sound like laughter. You gave me Gulf breezes that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could exhale again.

Your live oaks wrapped me in their long arms. Your wetlands whispered secrets I’d forgotten how to hear. Your thunderstorms rolled in like a mood, quick and loud and then gone, like my own grief.

You’ve held me in hard seasons, offered me orchids blooming from trees and herons tiptoeing through water. You showed me how wildness and softness can live in the same breath.

I long for you often. I miss the air, the light, the sound of frogs after dark. I can’t wait to come back—to walk your trails, breathe you in, let you remind me of who I was when you held me. Pensacola, I’ll visit as many times as I can. Always.

I carry you both in me—
Indiana’s steady hush and Pensacola’s lush chaos. You are my anchors and my wings. My deep roots and my soft landings. My before and my becoming.

Thank you for the way you’ve healed me without needing words.
For the spaces you gave me to walk, to cry, to breathe, to begin again.

With all my love,
A grateful wanderer between two worlds

A person walking on a sidewalk near a street, wearing a gray sweatshirt and shorts, with a slight smile on their face. Trees and houses line the street, under a cloudy sky.
A serene sunrise view through a window, framed by bare trees, with the silhouette of a dog in the foreground.
A serene winter scene depicting bare trees against a pastel sky with a hint of moonlight, featuring stone pillars marking an entrance along a quiet pathway.
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