Why I Chose the Ocean Over a White Picket Fence

I was nineteen with two babies, no money, no real support—and a storm of chaos I needed to escape. I didn’t have a plan, just a feeling. A gut-level urge that screamed: Get out. So I did.

We left. The girls and I landed in a women’s shelter, and I remember sitting there with nothing but a few bags, my kids asleep beside me, and this buzzing pressure in my chest like I was supposed to be doing something. I didn’t know what, but I knew I couldn’t stay stuck. I needed to figure it out.

I remember flipping through an actual phone book—yellow pages, thin paper—trying to find help. Legal aid, housing, anything. I was too young for this, and yet, I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for someone to rescue me. There was no one coming. So I called. I asked questions. I made appointments. I showed up.

Somehow, I got bumped to the top of the housing list. A three-bedroom townhouse. Not perfect, but stable. I remember putting the girls in their little beds that first night and feeling like, Okay. We made it. We’re safe. For the first time in a while, I wasn’t running. But that’s when the real question hit: Now what?

That question haunted me. I was out of survival mode—barely—but I didn’t know how to build a life. What were the rules? What was I supposed to do next?

One day, I was walking through KMART with the girls. Probably looking for baby socks or something cheap we needed. I ended up in the book aisle. Tiny section, mostly random paperbacks. But one title jumped out like it had been planted there just for me: Rich Dad, Poor Dad - what the Rich teach their kids and what the poor and middle class do not.. I grabbed it and started reading it that night after the kids were asleep.

That book lit a fire in me. I had never read anything like it. I devoured it in a week, highlighting pages, rereading lines, crying at some parts—not because it was sad, but because it was the first time I saw a way out. Not just of poverty or stress, but out of the life I had assumed I was stuck with. It planted a thought in me that wouldn’t go away: If no one is going to teach me, I’ll teach myself.

So I did. I enrolled in a condensed 3-year business program in Pembroke. I don’t even remember how I pulled it off. Just that I had to. Nights were long. The girls were in daycare, and I was in class. Then home for dinner, bath time, bedtime stories—followed by hours of studying and three Tim Horton’s coffees to keep me awake before an exam.

Some nights I’d sleep two hours. Some not at all. But the girls never knew. Their hair was always brushed, outfits always matched. I prided myself on keeping them clean and cared for. 

I kept reading. Think and Grow Rich, Millionaire Mindset, Lucky or Smart. Every book opened something in me. I was building myself from scratch. And when I finally graduated—with the girls sitting front row, beaming—I felt unstoppable. That moment is seared in me forever.

Eventually, I got my real estate license. I met a man in college—a military police officer. We moved to Kingston, Ontario. Bought a house. BBQs in the backyard. Costco runs. Holiday decorations for every season. Three rice cookers because one wasn’t enough, apparently. It was the life. The one people post about. I made it. I had everything I thought I was supposed to want.

A gorgeous house on Rainbow Crescent—big, bright, with just the right amount of “look how far I’ve come” energy. Fancy cars I rolled off the lot like I’d been doing it my whole life. A yoga routine, clean eating, matching throw pillows for every season. A purse for every shoe. A four-bedroom house. A treadmill I rarely used. We even had chinchillas! I was the woman people looked at and thought, Damn, she figured it out. (if they only knew)...

And for a while? Yeah, it felt like I’d made it. Like the foster kid beat the system - and underdog. I was proud of that. But something under the surface was always off. I ignored the signs until I couldn’t anymore.

Infidelity shattered the illusion. Just like that, the life I had built—gone. 

That’s when something stunted me again. Not with rage this time, but with clarity. I didn’t want the white picket fence. I never really had.

I wanted freedom. Truth. Me. 

So I took a year to slow down. To stop chasing and start asking deeper questions. I needed to find my footing again, not just financially or professionally—but in my why. What was all of this for?

At the same time, something shifted on the home front. After years of being the only steady presence in my daughters’ lives, I agreed—with caution and hope—to let their father step in. Custody visits started slowly. The girls were finally getting to know him, and he was earning my trust in a way I never thought possible.

It was scary. Letting go a little. Loosening the grip I'd held so tightly for so long.

And right in the middle of that tender in-between space, life handed me something wild. An opportunity so unexpected, it felt like the universe had cracked open just to see what I’d do with it.

A chance to step away. Not to run—but to breathe. A soul break. That’s the only way I can describe it. I met someone how introduced me to sailing. Forever thankful for Captain B! 

And it led me exactly where I needed to go...

One question: Will you sail to Bahamas and back with me? 

Soul instinct.

So we set sail 3 months later. Packed what I could, trusted the timing, and sailed into the Bahamas. Alone, but not lost. This wasn’t about escape. It wasn’t about turquoise water and sunsets (though let’s be honest, they didn’t hurt). It was about remembering. Reclaiming. Rebuilding—not from survival, but from instinct. Not the kind that kicks in when everything’s falling apart… but the kind that shows up when you’re finally still enough to listen.

And let me tell you—soul work doesn’t come with a packing list.

On that 10-month trip, I had to leave behind all the “extras.” No ten pairs of shoes. No shelves of nail polish. None of the aesthetic fluff I used to armor myself in. It stripped me down. And it was so uncomfortable at first.

I remember sitting among retired cruisers—most of them in their sixties, settled into the peak of their cozy sailing lives. I felt out of place. Raw. Salty-haired. Barefoot. And definitely not matching. A part of me wondered, How will they take me seriously? How will they respect my professionalism if I’m not in a blazer with polished nails?

But over and over again, it didn’t matter.

We all sat at the same tables. I was invited aboard bigger yachts. We swapped stories over sundowners. And what I realized was this: they respected me not for how I looked, but for who I was. They saw me. My audacity to do this in my mid-thirties, while they were just arriving at this freedom in their fifties or sixties—often too worn out to fully enjoy it.

They praised me for choosing it now. For not waiting. For living wide open.

And I thought—Damn. OK. I guess I will.

Because appearances don’t mean nothing when people see your soul.

There’s more than one way to “make it.” Mine didn’t come wrapped in comfort or convention. It came through fire, failure, freedom—and the choice to trust my own compass. If you’re standing at the edge of your own next step, wondering if it’s worth it… it is.

You don’t need to have it all figured out. Just start walking.

Your ocean will find you.

Your girl, Chanty

@wanderlust.chanty