Charleston had always been on my radar growing up, but somehow, I had never made it there. Visiting now, however, was a completely different experience than it would have been in my younger years. If I had visited in my 20s, I probably would have spent my time admiring the architecture and bar hopping, a far cry from digging through riverbeds in strong currents with almost no visibility, covered in mud and silt. Back then, I knew nothing about the diving community, let alone the sub-culture version found in South Carolina. And as it turns out, this region offers the unique opportunity to dive in its murky rivers in search of shark teeth—a perfect activity for someone as obsessed with fossils as I am.
After completing our fossil-focused dives, we said goodbye to our newfound friends in this niche community that stole my heart, knowing all too well that this would be a place I’d return to. But now, it was time to make the trek up to my old stomping grounds, passing through cities I once called home. Our route would take us from Charleston to Washington D.C., Baltimore, and finally up to Philadelphia to my parents' house for a gear swap—all before heading to the cold-water diving destinations to follow on our expedition trail. Exhausted, we were driven by the goal of getting our Panamanian car to Philadelphia—and ultimately saying "we did it," despite the odds.
With each stop along our journey, I was able to reconnect with friends from college, catching a glimpse into their lives. Everyone seemed content, each with their own set of victories and challenges that they were eager to share. From the trials of raising children to the struggles at work, to the joy of being close to loved ones and finding happiness in the simplest of things—like a rare night out with old friends away from the demands of parenthood. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy at the simplicity of it all. Life seemed more manageable, less stressful, and in many ways, rather quaint and lovely.
However, meeting my friends' new children left me with more questions than answers. Marriage and raising kids had never been part of my life plan. To me, these traditional milestones felt like they would suffocate the freedom I cherished—freedom that had always driven me forward. The idea of feeling trapped or "settled" was something I had always avoided, preferring instead a life of fast-paced adventure, constant movement, and change. To me, marriage, children, and family felt like the antithesis of all that. Yet, seeing my friends' happiness as they held their newborns and chased their toddlers made me second guess. Perhaps it was the fact that I was nearing 37 and still living out of a suitcase that had me deeply analyzing my choices as we made our way up the east coast.
Marrying Adam was initially a matter of necessity. When the pandemic hit, I lost my skill-shortage visa in Australia, as the small company I worked for could no longer sustain senior-level salaries. With my working rights revoked and my stay in the country jeopardized, I had three choices: switch to a tourist visa and forfeit my ability to work in the country, return to America or get married to an Australian citizen. With flights out of Australia halted, my options quickly dwindled, and only one remaining choice seemed at all practical. So, after only a year of knowing each other, Adam and I took a leap of faith, heading to the courthouse to sign the paperwork. The makeshift ceremony, witnessed by my confused parents over FaceTime and his in person, left me emotionally drained, and I passed out on his lap just 30 minutes later—perhaps due to subverting my own self-identity in such an extreme way.
Meeting Adam led me to realize that, when you find someone worth sharing your life with, the concept of marriage and family no longer feels as daunting. In fact, on the contrary, it’s comforting. Throughout my life, I viewed marriage as a traditional path already defined by others—and certainly one I wasn’t eager to follow. But over time, I learned that we have the power to redefine these concepts to meet our own needs; we can carve our own paths in life and live by standards we alone set.
So, after taking in these limited doses of “domestic bliss,” I couldn't help but ask myself: Do I want to bring children into a world burdened with so many challenges—heavy hitting challenges that I had been seeing up-close-and-personal since choosing to live on the “edges of earth.” Am I willing to give up my profound sense of freedom and independence, putting myself behind the needs of someone else: my theoretical unborn child? Do I need to "settle down" and lead a more stationary life in order to have a family? Why am I even thinking about having a family right now, when I’m bound for diving in Arctic waters!?
These questions are the kind that many of my demographic grapple with today, especially when it comes to childless women in their mid-thirties. In fact, more women are choosing to have children later in life, more families are embracing nomadic lifestyles, and more people are exploring paths that don’t involve children or partners at all. The traditional rulebooks are increasingly irrelevant as we carve out new ways of living in this highly connected and modern world of ours. This journey up my home coast was not only a window into the traditional choices my closest friends were making, but a moment to reflect on my own.
As I looked back on our year living on the road, one without the usual creature comforts and security I had in my prior life, one truth stood out: supporting the place you call home is one of the most impactful things you can do for our planet. Everyone we’ve met on this expedition has been a fierce advocate for their local ocean, land, and community—and above all else their family. Their deep pride in their homeland drives them to protect their corner of the planet with everything they've got. This sense of rootedness, of pride in your home, is a powerful and beneficial one when it comes to preserving the health of our planet.
Our roots shape us, and embracing them often gives us a sense of purpose that’s hard to find elsewhere.
Moving through my college town of Washington D.C. and up into Baltimore, we made a stop at the National Aquarium, a place where my love for the ocean first took hold. Growing up with limited access to beaches, aside from the occasional trip to the New Jersey shore, this aquarium introduced me to the vastness of the ocean. It sparked my fascination with marine life and gave me a sense of purpose, even as a small child. Walking through the halls, it felt like just yesterday that I was a five-year-old girl, absorbing every fact about the animals behind the glass. Never would that little girl have imagined she’d one day be traveling the world, witnessing these creatures in their natural habitats. I felt a deep gratitude for being exposed to this at such a young age.
By the time we reached Philadelphia, I was exhausted—not just from the relentless pace of expedition life, which had now been our reality for 13 months, but also from the emotional weight of contemplating my next chapters, those that would follow this expedition I have invested so much of myself in. I had to remind myself that this was part of the journey—to push ourselves to think deeply about life, what truly matters, and how we intend to move forward. Going to the edges has always been about meeting people on the frontlines of the climate crisis, but it also has always been about confronting ourselves while there, facing the toughest questions life throws our way.
I wanted to savor my time in my hometown, to remind myself of where I’m from and feel a sense of pride, even if I never live in Philadelphia again. I was eager to immerse myself in my friends' lives, to listen as they shared their experiences, and to take every moment of it in. It was hard not to get emotional, knowing this might be the last time I see them for a year, or maybe even longer, as this expedition always seems to pull me further and further from the places I once called home. Since moving to Australia in 2019, I’ve had to learn to live with my choices, no matter how challenging that could be. I found myself doing that again, as my friends of nearly 20 years gathered around the kitchen table at my parents' house, reminiscing about our past.
After two weeks in Philadelphia and hours of failed packing attempts—with more cold-weather dive gear you could possibly imagine—we finally managed to squeeze it all into our measly two suitcases. We succumbed to the fact we’d soon be wearing the same clothes every day for six months straight in order to accommodate the heavy dive and camera load. We ran our errands, shipped boxes of tropical gear back to Australia, and tried to catch some sleep when we could, knowing that what lay ahead would be tougher than anything we’d faced so far. Yet many nights I sat awake with my thoughts, asking myself what the next version of “me” would look like.
I knew, with every sleepless night, that any grand life plan I’d conjure up would never go accordingly. We might think we’ll never get married, to then meet the love of your life. We might be certain we don’t want children, but then we see the joy they bring to our best friends. We might try to have a child and discover it’s not in the cards. Life’s biggest moments often catch us off guard, unfolding in ways we never anticipated. All we can do is be present, appreciate the moments as they come, stay connected to where we come from, and embrace wherever we might land next.
When Adam and I left Philadelphia, we didn’t have answers to the big questions on our minds. But we left with a new outlook—one of deep appreciation and a focus on living presently. And trusting that this mindset of presence will provide us the wisdom we need to press forward on our journey. We were ready to let life happen, without overthinking or trying to structure every outcome. We were prepared to live fully in the exceptional moments that we knew were coming ahead, knowing that this time in our lives won’t ever come again as it is. We were ready to make the most of being out on the edges, tackling every new challenge as an adventure ripe for the taking.
To be continued …
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