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“Just because someone is older, or someone you love and trust, doesn’t mean they’re qualified to give you advice. Especially on things they’ve never actually done.”I started thinking about how often I’d followed advice simply because it came from someone close to me. I never really questioned if they were actually speaking from experience, or just repeating what they thought was right.The book challenged me to pause and test it. Call someone you usually turn to for advice and ask them a business question you know they have no real background in. So I did.I called my mom.I asked her, “What do you think is the best way to structure a corporation for long-term growth?”Now, my mom has never run a business. She hasn’t worked in anything corporate. But she still gave me an answer. Like she knew. Like it was fact.Then I asked, “How do you know? Have you ever owned a corporation or worked in one?”She paused. It threw her off. She didn’t have an answer, and I could tell she hadn’t expected to be questioned. I told her I loved her and I’d call her later, but that moment changed the way I looked at advice forever.It made something really clear. Even the people we love the most can lead us in the wrong direction without meaning to. Not because they’re trying to hold us back, but because they don’t always know the difference between belief and knowledge.That’s when I realized I needed to be more intentional about where I seek guidance. I can love someone deeply and still not follow their advice when it comes to the kind of life and business I’m building.That realization opened the door to a much deeper truth. A lot of the beliefs I was living by weren’t actually mine. They were passed down. Repeated. Absorbed. Not questioned.<figure id="figure-q0hre5zdrrmbickp9f"><img id="q0hre5zdrrmbickp9f" src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/1870604554/photo/surreal-woman-reading-a-book-flies-on-an-overturned-umbrella.jpg?b=1&s=2048x2048&w=0&k=20&c=wAERa3y0uDcXyQbPYa8uuThkuu_pn2ymPbSOXrGlIbA=" alt="surreal woman reading a book flies on an overturned umbrella" title="surreal woman reading a book flies on an overturned umbrella" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>Back in 2007, I read Secrets of the Millionaire Mind by T. Harv Eker, and it introduced the concept of a financial blueprint. Basically, the internal map we’re all carrying around that shapes how we relate to money.&nbsp;One of the mindset shifts that really helped me years ago came from a book that still sits on my shelf today: Secrets of the Millionaire Mind by T. Harv Eker. It’s where I first learned about the concept of a financial blueprint—and it honestly changed how I saw everything.If you're curious and want to check it out,<a data-mce-href="https://amzn.to/4lblRBN" href="https://amzn.to/4lblRBN" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> here’s the book.&nbsp;</a>My blueprint was full of scarcity and guilt. It was built on ideas like:<ul style="list-style-type: circle;" data-mce-style="list-style-type: circle;"><li>Money is hard to earn</li><li>Success is for other people</li><li>Don’t ask for too much</li><li>Be grateful for anything you get</li></ul>That kind of thinking might have made sense in past generations. Our parents and grandparents grew up in times where the focus was on saving, not growing. On surviving, not thriving. But we don’t live in that world anymore, and those old ideas won’t get us where we want to go.We’re allowed to think differently. We’re allowed to want more.&nbsp; The shift didn’t come from reading books or writing affirmations. It came from catching myself in the middle of those old thoughts and choosing something else.Like when I’d start to feel guilty for wanting ease in my life. Or when I’d find myself hesitating to move forward with an idea just because it didn’t look like the traditional path.I learned to pause and ask, “Is this true? Or is this just what I’ve always believed?”That question has become one of my best tools. It helps me stop those inherited beliefs before they shape my choices. It helps me choose based on who I’m becoming, not who I used to be.&nbsp; This work isn’t just about money. It’s about clarity. It’s about being free in your mind, not just your circumstances.Because while limiting beliefs can be loud, they don’t get to run the show unless we let them.You get to decide what stays and what goes.So maybe now is the time to ask yourself: Whose voice have you been listening to? And are they really qualified to shape the way you live, build, and grow?You don’t have to carry beliefs just because someone handed them to you. You can choose different ones. You can plant better seeds. And your kids, or the people watching you, will grow from those instead.And here's what I’ve learned since that phone call, since that book, since those early questions. Rewiring your beliefs isn’t just mental. It’s spiritual.I’ve made six <a data-mce-href="https://amzn.to/3T9XzMe" href="https://amzn.to/3T9XzMe" target="_blank" rel="noopener">vision boards</a> over the years. Not because it’s trendy, but because clarity matters. You have to see what you’re moving toward. You have to believe it’s already yours, even before there’s any proof.<figure id="figure-xatzzi46l9jmbi9y1q0"><img id="xatzzi46l9jmbi9y1q0" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/3XZD9zxOtVtiSicwBZqo044HDonvCNjlNUczospaEDUMTQecajoQKrN8x30bA3kX.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/3XZD9zxOtVtiSicwBZqo044HDonvCNjlNUczospaEDUMTQecajoQKrN8x30bA3kX.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure>And I say it out loud. Every single day. With conviction. These are some of the affirmations that have helped rewire my blueprint:<ul style="list-style-type: circle;" data-mce-style="list-style-type: circle;"><li>I am a magnet for aligned opportunities</li><li>My success is safe</li><li>I receive with ease and without guilt</li><li>I am building wealth that reflects who I truly am</li><li>I trust myself to lead, to grow, and to thrive</li><li>I no longer shrink to fit old beliefs</li></ul>Manifestation isn’t just about wishing. It’s about aligning how you think, speak, and act with the reality you’re creating. You don’t get what you want. You get what you believe.So I keep choosing belief. I keep showing up like the woman I already am. I keep trusting that the goals I’ve set are already on their way, because I’ve already started becoming the version of me who receives them.That’s not magic. That’s alignment.And it works.Until next tide,ChantalHeads up: some links in my blogs are affiliate links. That means if you click and buy, I might make a little coffee money—no extra cost to you. Don’t hate the hustle, learn from it. ☕😉<h3> </h3>

Limiting Beliefs Are Loud, But They Don’t Get the Final Word

I don’t remember calling this meeting. But here we are.A circle of women who all share my face. Some older. Some younger. Some tired. Some radiant. Some with eyes that have seen too much. Some with hearts still learning to open.They shift in their seats. I do too. Because facing them means facing myself.We begin with the version I’ve judged the hardest. And move, slowly, toward the one I’m learning to love the most.&nbsp; The one who knew the streets smirks from the edge of the circle. "You forget about me?""Never," I say. "You were sharp. Fast. A survivor. You taught me hustle. Instinct. Street wisdom."She nods.&nbsp; The young mom speaks next. She’s barely holding it together—juggling bottles, shame, and the weight of judgment. "I didn’t know what I was doing," she says. "But I showed up. Even when I wanted to disappear. Even when no one clapped."She looks at me with quiet defiance. "I gave you the fire. The reason. The love."&nbsp; The one who lost everything walks in with eyes down. "We had to let go," she says. "It was killing us. But letting go almost killed me too."I take a breath. "You gave me grief. You gave me space to grieve without shame."&nbsp; The fighter steps forward. Jaw tight. Knuckles scarred. "I used to throw fists. Lash out. React first, think later. It was the only power I knew."She looks up with tear-glossed eyes. "But you learned to listen. To breathe. To respond, not explode."I nod slowly. "You gave me survival. But you also showed me what peace costs—and why it’s worth everything."&nbsp; The one who stayed too long. In places that dimmed her light. With people who mistook her softness for weakness. "I confused pain with purpose," she whispers. "I thought if I held on long enough, it would change."Her voice cracks. "I gave you the lesson. The boundary. The proof that you’re allowed to leave."&nbsp; The numb one sits nearby. Calm on the surface, but you can feel the ache underneath. "I didn't want to feel it," she says. "So I distracted myself. I numbed. I checked out."I nod. "You did what you had to to survive." She meets my eyes. "I gave you a pause. The space between the waves. The realization that healing had to come next."&nbsp; The one who broke is next. Slouched. Quiet. Eyes like heavy glass. "I thought it was the end," she confesses. "When everything fell apart, I thought we were done."I reach for her hand. "But you did it. You gave me surrender. You made space for something new."&nbsp; The dreamer walks in barefoot. Hair wild. Eyes full of stars and saltwater. "I saw this life before anyone else did," she says, grinning. "You called it crazy. But I kept dreaming anyway."She twirls a strand of hair and adds, "I gave you vision. Freedom. Permission."&nbsp; The host arrives with grace. Elegant. Calm. Always smiling. "I turned pain into hospitality," she says. "I learned to make people feel safe because I never did."She nods at me. "I gave you connection. Reputation. Community."&nbsp; The professional strides in with sharp edges and schedules. "I cleaned up. Showed up. Got shit done," she says. "I learned the systems. I spoke their language. I became the version they respected."She softens just slightly. "I gave you credibility. Stability. And the chance to rewrite what success could look like."&nbsp; The tenacious one walks in barefoot but unbreakable. She’s the one who kept going when no one was clapping, no one was helping, no one even believed in the dream. "I stayed up late. Learned as I went. Carried the weight alone."She places her hand over her heart. "You owe it all to me. I gave you endurance. I gave you the empire."&nbsp; And finally, the one who forgave. She speaks softly. "You can stop punishing yourself now."She pauses. "You did the best you could with what you knew. And when you knew better, you did better."Tears sting my eyes. "You gave me grace. You gave me peace."&nbsp; At the head of the circle sits future me. Older. Softer. Steady as the tide. She doesn’t speak right away. She just watches."What do I need to know?" I ask.She smiles gently. "Stop fighting the becoming. Every version of you mattered. None of them were wasted."&nbsp; And for the first time, I understand. None of them were mistakes. They were all chapters. All sacred. All necessary.I see them. I honor them. I welcome them home.And in this moment, I feel completely, entirely here.I am ready.Chantal &nbsp;

Versions of Me I Had to Meet

Somewhere along the way, I stopped giving so much airtime to the noise.When I say noise, I mean all the things that pull you away from your path. The distractions, the buzzing of bullshit, the naysayers, the judgmental side-eyes from people who don't understand your journey but still feel entitled to comment on it. Noise is the mental clutter that comes from comparison, criticism, and unsolicited opinions. It's the energy drain of trying to live up to someone else's version of who you should be.The whispers, the opinions, the projections... none of it belongs to me.There was a time when I tried to defend my choices. When I wanted to explain why I live the way I do, or why I chose to leave behind certain people, places, and patterns. But I realized that the need to justify comes from the same place as the need to be understood: a place of old wounds.Now? I let the noise play out in the background while I focus on building something real.Canceling the noise doesn't mean I don't hear it. It means I don't let it steer the ship.These days, my life looks different than most people's timelines or five year plans. I live on a 30ft sailboat in Mexico. I wake up with the sun, make coffee in my little floating kitchen, and spend my mornings studying or working remotely. I'm building a brand and a life that reflects my values freedom, creativity, healing, and connectionI'm not scrolling, I'm studying. I'm not gossiping, I'm growing. I'm not wondering what people think about me. I'm wondering what more I can create with the time I have.Canceling the noise looks like dancing in my sailboat to music that makes me feel alive. It looks like deep belly laughs with my daughter and tears shed in private moments of healing. It looks like pouring my energy into things that matter and letting the rest fade into static.Here's the thing: people will always have something to say. But if they aren't in the arena with you, building, risking, learning, and evolving, their opinions carry very little weight."If you're not in the arena also getting your ass kicked too, I'm not interested in your feedback." — Brené BrownSo if you've been feeling overwhelmed by the chatter, the comparison, the unsolicited commentary on your life... I invite you to ask: what would happen if you canceled the noise and leaned in to your own voice instead?You might just find that your truth is louder than anything outside you.And it sounds a lot like peace.Your girl,Chanty @wanderlust.chanty"Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people." — Eleanor Roosevelt

Let the Noise Talk - I’ll Be Over Here Building

There was a time when I lived for the escape. Vacations were survival mode dressed up in cute outfits—short bursts of freedom between long stretches of burnout. I chased success the way we’re taught to. Hustled to look the part. Worked to prove something. To feel worthy. To seem rich, even if it cost me peace.Now, I wake up when my body’s ready. I make coffee in my floating kitchen, sometimes still in my underwear. I answer client messages with my feet up in the cockpit, a salty breeze on my skin and the ocean sparkling like it’s in on the secret.This isn’t a getaway. This is my everyday.And still, there are moments I feel like I’m cheating at life. Like somehow this kind of freedom must come with strings or a deadline. That imposter voice creeps in, whispering, You didn’t earn this. This is too good. Why you, and not them?It took time to convince myself. I am allowed to choose differently and expect a different result. For years throughout the process, I felt like I didn’t deserve this life. But I remind myself daily that the choices I’ve made are mine alone. And I made them with courage. With clarity. With heart.I am worthy. I shouldn’t feel guilty for being here just because others aren’t. That guilt doesn’t help anyone. All I can do is live by example. Show what’s possible. And maybe, just maybe, inspire someone else to step into their own version of freedom too.I’ll never forget something a college teacher told me on a field trip. We were on a bus, headed to tour a major communications company. I asked, “Why do some people just want to be a manager here, and others become the owner?” He paused, looked at me, and said:“Because everyone’s definition of success is different.”That stuck with me forever. That was the moment I realized I get to define mine. I don’t have to chase someone else’s version of “making it.” I am in charge of what that looks like.For me, success looks like time. Peace. Creating work I care about, with people I genuinely want to help. It looks like living by the ocean, choosing when I work, and building a life I don’t need to recover from.Family used to feel like something I didn’t get to have. But I’ve learned that family doesn’t have to share your blood. It’s the people you collect along the way. The ones who show up. Who get you. Who care with their whole hearts. That’s the kind of love I’ve found, and the kind I give back.And home? I used to think I’d never feel safe enough to have one. Now I make home wherever I go. I love movement. I love change. I love the feeling of dropping anchor somewhere new and building little moments of beauty and safety right there.Of course I still have hard days. Growth doesn’t erase pain. But I no longer need to run from my life.I built something that feels good to live in.And here’s the truth. Every tiny decision you make shapes your version of success. Even the small, quiet ones. The ones no one sees. You just have to listen to what your soul is really craving and be brave enough to follow it.Because the life you want isn’t a fantasy. It’s a path. And it starts the moment you decide to stop chasing someone else’s dream and build your own.Writing the map as I go,Your girl, Chanty“Life won’t hand you permission. You’ve got to claim it.”

I Built a Life I Don’t Need a Vacation From

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.&nbsp;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)...<img id="nce0hwa64vmazo41tg" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/1WlhJFfPXRPDZYngoeS9aciVCsUHcU7jRX2sop5gLCDou56fFUDyPtVheIjILacK.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/1WlhJFfPXRPDZYngoeS9aciVCsUHcU7jRX2sop5gLCDou56fFUDyPtVheIjILacK.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"><figure id="figure-307zlrtrgmb58w7eo"><img id="307zlrtrgmb58w7eo" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/22UQDAIOnX7FhYvaAU15pAWe5wH5wxzSULbhJ6I1IwSUIeV2snEz1TPDjUZ6TQHO.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 3/2; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="3:2" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/22UQDAIOnX7FhYvaAU15pAWe5wH5wxzSULbhJ6I1IwSUIeV2snEz1TPDjUZ6TQHO.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 3/2; object-position: center center;"></figure>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.&nbsp;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.&nbsp;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!&nbsp;And it led me exactly where I needed to go...One question: Will you sail to Bahamas and back with me?&nbsp;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.<p style="border-color: #e5e7eb; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-color: rgba(62,172,255,.5); --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-transform: translateX(0) translateY(0) rotate(0) skewX(0) skewY(0) scaleX(1) scaleY(1); --tw-border-opacity: 1; font-size: 18px; line-height: 28px; font-weight: 400; font-family: Quattrocento, serif;" data-mce-style="border-color: #e5e7eb; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-color: rgba(62,172,255,.5); --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-transform: translateX(0) translateY(0) rotate(0) skewX(0) skewY(0) scaleX(1) scaleY(1); --tw-border-opacity: 1; font-size: 18px; line-height: 28px; font-weight: 400; font-family: Quattrocento, serif;"><img id="by9u7vg0dpmb58slpb" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/3bb0r7zzJW9Pv7KI5HHObragIu98HQIWmAhtaDTC7g15H6tmYdYpcHow6sd8NrdT.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/3bb0r7zzJW9Pv7KI5HHObragIu98HQIWmAhtaDTC7g15H6tmYdYpcHow6sd8NrdT.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" style="border-color: rgb(229, 231, 235); --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-pan-x: ; --tw-pan-y: ; --tw-pinch-zoom: ; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-gradient-from-position: ; --tw-gradient-via-position: ; --tw-gradient-to-position: ; --tw-ordinal: ; --tw-slashed-zero: ; --tw-numeric-figure: ; --tw-numeric-spacing: ; --tw-numeric-fraction: ; --tw-ring-inset: ; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-color: rgba(62,172,255,.5); --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-blur: ; --tw-brightness: ; --tw-contrast: ; --tw-grayscale: ; --tw-hue-rotate: ; --tw-invert: ; --tw-saturate: ; --tw-sepia: ; --tw-drop-shadow: ; --tw-backdrop-blur: ; --tw-backdrop-brightness: ; --tw-backdrop-contrast: ; --tw-backdrop-grayscale: ; --tw-backdrop-hue-rotate: ; --tw-backdrop-invert: ; --tw-backdrop-opacity: ; --tw-backdrop-saturate: ; --tw-backdrop-sepia: ; --tw-transform: translateX(0) translateY(0) rotate(0) skewX(0) skewY(0) scaleX(1) scaleY(1); --tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-filter: ; --tw-backdrop-filter: ; --tw-bg-opacity: 1; background-color: rgb(243, 244, 246); width: 640px; aspect-ratio: 16 / 9; object-position: center center;"> 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<figure id="figure-3ngbbdtmi9mb598i3i"><img id="3ngbbdtmi9mb598i3i" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/amQIYodZOHxNGp51aHhUcQsHYqUShRdbKyTZIu8Od0CRMsfMlFk1LQz8VsiL46Zt.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/amQIYodZOHxNGp51aHhUcQsHYqUShRdbKyTZIu8Od0CRMsfMlFk1LQz8VsiL46Zt.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure>

Why I Chose the Ocean Over a White Picket Fence

Before I moved onto a sailboat, I used to think I needed a lot of things.Not just physical stuff, but routines, appearances, certain comforts, certain clothes, a “professional image,” whatever that means. Looking back now, I can laugh at how tightly I held onto those things—even when they weren’t making me happy. Especially when they weren’t making me happy.When you live on a boat, you learn real quick what matters. Space is limited. Weight matters. There’s no closet full of “just in case” clothes, no pantry packed with 12 kinds of cereal, no room for emotional clutter.So here’s a little list I made. These are the things I thought I needed, until I realized they were actually keeping me stuck.&nbsp; 1. A giant wardrobe Back on land, I had bins of clothes “for future occasions,” a pile of shoes I never wore, and jeans I hadn’t fit into since before my kids were born. I told myself I was being prepared. I was really just clinging to a version of me I didn’t even like.Now? I wear the same few outfits, every day. And guess what? No one cares. Not even me.&nbsp; 2. Full kitchen appliances Three frying pans. Five spatulas. The Instant Pot I never used. A blender. A toaster. A microwave.&nbsp;I thought these things made a kitchen feel complete.Living on a boat, I learned how to make amazing meals with one burner, one pan, and the ability to move slow. Cooking became simple. Intentional. I stopped performing in the kitchen and started actually enjoying it.&nbsp; 3. “Nice” towels and bedsheets Let me tell you what’s more important than Egyptian cotton thread counts—having a dry towel that doesn’t smell like salt after three days in tropical humidity. That, and sheets that don’t mold when the boat gets damp. Boat life changed my relationship with what luxury actually feels like.Hint: It’s not thread count. It’s freedom.&nbsp; 4. A big fridge Refrigerators on boats are small. Really small. At first I panicked. Where would I put everything? Then I started buying less, eating fresher, wasting nothing.Turns out, I never needed a giant fridge. I needed to slow down, cook in the moment, and stop buying 3-for-1 jars of salsa.&nbsp; 5. “Career success” I spent years trying to be seen, respected, “taken seriously.” I was fired from a car dealership even after being one of their top salespeople. I showed up, outperformed, and still got pushed out—because I didn’t fit their mold ( tech savvy young, hot women, who sold a car from only making facebook post about having a new tire sale), and poked the wrong old bear. That was the beginning of the end for me.I realized then that “success,” as it was sold to me, wasn’t my definition. I didn’t want to work my way up in a system built to keep people like me out. I wanted to build something of my own.&nbsp;6. The need to fit in I spent so many years shape-shifting—trying to be more polished, more palatable, more professional, less loud, more agreeable. I’d walk into rooms and shrink myself before anyone had the chance to do it for me.Living on a boat changed that. There’s no room for pretending when you’re salty, sunburned, barefoot, and troubleshooting a leak at midnight. I started to see that my power wasn’t in how well I could blend in. It was in how boldly I could be exactly who I am.Now, I’m not trying to fit into anyone’s expectations. I’m too busy living my truth.&nbsp; 7. A full calendar Busy used to make me feel important. Productive. Valuable.Now I know better. Spaciousness is the new status symbol. Free mornings, sunset swims, journaling with no deadline, following my energy instead of pushing through. That’s what fills me now.&nbsp; 8. A house full of stuff I used to think a home was made of things: decorations, gadgets, backup batteries, seasonal throw pillows, kitchen drawer chaos. Keeping up with Sally down the street? No thanks.Now, my home is floating. And I’ve never felt more grounded.&nbsp; 9. The illusion of control On land, I thought I could plan my way into safety. I tried to organize my life so tightly that nothing could go wrong.Living on a boat humbled me. Weather changes. Engines fail. Sometimes the tide says nope. I stopped gripping so hard. I let go of needing to know. And somehow, that’s when I actually started trusting myself.I learn to just chill, because nothing is under control.10. Everyone’s approval This one’s still tender. I’ve spent a lot of my life proving myself. Trying to be the good mom, the smart one, the dependable one, the strong one, the survivor.But you know what? The ocean doesn’t care who approves of you. The wind doesn’t wait for your confidence. You either show up real, or you don’t show up at all.And slowly, that started to feel like relief.If you’re reading this and feeling the pull to live with less and feel more… I see you. It doesn’t have to start with a boat. It can start with a question. A drawer you finally clean out. A lie you stop telling yourself. A dream you stop dismissing.Let it start somewhere.Because when you begin letting go of the things you thought you needed, you start making room for the life that was waiting for you all along.Writing the map as I go, Your girl, Chanty<a data-mce-href="https://www.instagram.com/wanderlust.chanty/" href="https://www.instagram.com/wanderlust.chanty/">@wanderlust.chanty</a>“Freedom isn’t found in what you own. It’s found in what you’re willing to release.”<figure id="figure-v8va3eykqmayzg7g2"><img id="v8va3eykqmayzg7g2" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/2dBMXyy1m9QgD6B1Qq7OlPK7qmSzTvZb1UfEqSNlUu9Vv2nW9SPCFOKxPxSdLaA5.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: undefined undefined;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>

10 Things I Thought I Needed (Until I Moved Onto a Boat)

Wanderlust Atlas