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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)

I didn’t grow up on the ocean. I didn’t come from a sailing family or dream of living on a boat. What I did grow up with was a deep knowing that something about “normal life” didn’t feel quite right for me.From a young age, I was navigating hard things on my own. I placed myself into foster care at 12 and fought in court to stay there. Not because I was rebellious, but because I trusted my gut even then. I knew I had to choose a different path, even if no one understood it.That decision changed my life.My foster mom gave me a stable home, but more than that—she gave me love, discipline, self-worth, and a sense of belonging I had never felt before. We’re still close to this day. She showed me what it meant to be seen, supported, and held to a higher standard because someone believes in you. And maybe hardest to admit—she showed me what it felt like to not be constantly hungry. Ekk. Even writing that still brings tears to my eyes. It’s a part of my story that shaped me in ways I’m still unpacking.By 22, I was a young mom and a homeowner. I was going to college, managing on social assistance, and building something from scratch. Everyone around me thought I was doing amazing—and in many ways, I was. But beneath the surface, I felt disconnected. Like I was living a version of life I never really chose, just inherited.In between jobs, I dabbled in everything from marketing to car sales. I was even fired from a dealership after topping the sales chart in my first three months. That was a wake-up call. It was a reminder that the “old boys club” still exists, and that no matter how well you perform, corporate systems are built to protect the status quo. That experience helped confirm what I already knew deep down—the way we’re told to live is broken, and I needed to find a way out.Then in 2013, the universe handed me something different.I was in between jobs with some savings tucked away, and for once, my kids were spending time with their dad. Someone asked me if I wanted to help sail a boat from Kingston, Ontario to the Bahamas and back.I had zero sailing experience. I didn’t have a plan. But something inside me said yes before I could talk myself out of it.That one yes cracked open everything.We spent ten months at sea. I learned how to read the wind, how to trust my instincts, and how to be okay with stillness and discomfort. Life on a sailboat isn’t always glamorous. It’s cramped, raw, unpredictable. But it was the first time I had felt truly free.I have so many stories from that trip—sunrises in silence, storms that tested me, moments that changed how I see everything. But I’ll save those for another blog post.That trip became a compass for everything that followed.When I got back to Canada, I started racing 30-foot sailboats every Thursday in the summers. At one point, I was gifted my first sailboat. There was one condition: I could never sell it. I had to give it away when I was done and pay it forward. That rule stuck with me. It wasn’t just about a boat—it was about how freedom should move. Not be hoarded. Not be owned. Just passed on to the next person ready to receive it.I kept managing Airbnb properties, raising my kids, and working, but something in me had shifted. I no longer believed in the version of success I used to chase.Then the pandemic hit.Like many people, I was forced to reassess everything. I realized I could manage all my properties remotely from my sailboat. And that was the moment it all clicked.I could live anywhere. So I did.In 2021, I bought a one-way ticket to Mexico. No plan. Just trust. I began crewing on boats through the Sea of Cortez, Chiapas, and up to Puerto Vallarta. I now live aboard my own boat full-time in Isla Mujeres. I ride my scooter through town. I rollerblade by the sea. I still manage properties and work with travelers, but now I do it on my terms.This isn’t about running away. It’s about returning to something real.In my time at sea and on this path, I’ve met people from every walk of life—wealthy, spiritual, lost, found. And I’ve learned that being rich has nothing to do with money. Happiness has nothing to do with stuff. It has everything to do with connection, presence, and living a life that reflects your heart’s atlas, not someone else’s map.So if you’re feeling stuck, if something inside you is whispering for more, listen.It doesn’t have to be a boat or a one-way ticket. It starts with one honest question.What do I want to feel more of in my life, and what am I willing to let go of to get there?You don’t need to be fearless. You just need to be willing.I’m still figuring it out. I still doubt myself. But every single day I wake up, breathe ocean air, and remember that this life—this messy, magical, non-traditional life—is mine.And if you're reading this, it might be yours too.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>“Your heart already knows the way. All that’s left is to listen.” <figure id="figure-6gpx1rdk2qmayy3gde"><img id="6gpx1rdk2qmayy3gde" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/02ZtgWXEyRkUOPKOUMSGVjSumOGtdjLghEjRWKvFULMY5Lfx3KwgfwIBp3XCVL6q.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: undefined% 50%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="This little girl already knew. She just didn’t have the words yet." data-positionx="undefined%" data-positiony="50%" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/02ZtgWXEyRkUOPKOUMSGVjSumOGtdjLghEjRWKvFULMY5Lfx3KwgfwIBp3XCVL6q.png" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: undefined% 50%;"><figcaption class="body-normal text-gray-500 mt-2">This little girl already knew. She just didn’t have the words yet.</figcaption></figure>

I Left the Life Everyone Told Me I Should Want—And Found Myself on the Water

Before the boats, the salty ocean, the free-spirit... there was a girl.A girl who carried more than she should have. Who learned to survive before she learned to dream. Who was fierce, even when she felt fragile. She didn’t know where life would take her, only that it had to be different.This blog isn’t about curated moments or highlight reels—it’s about the grit it took to get here. It’s about trauma, healing, choosing differently, and stepping into a life most people don’t understand.The Deep Stuff is where I tell the truth. The kind that doesn't always make it to Instagram. The stuff that I never thought I´d post about. It’s raw, real, and sometimes messy. But every piece of it shaped who I’ve become, but the more I share, the better I feel. I hope it can inspire someone and at least help them along their own way somehow.You’ll find stories of AH-HA moments that led me to freedom, emotional intelligence, and a whole new way of living.I will share unapologetically, so that you can too.If you’re in a place where you’re still figuring it out, you’re not alone. If you're navigating your own gut feelings, growth, or your own reinvention, there’s room for you here.This is the stuff that matters.– Chantal

The Deep Stuff - Introduction READ THIS FIRST

Wanderlust Atlas

Wanderlust Atlas is a freedom based brand and digital business focused on helping small businesses, entrepreneurs, and modern independents use AI, websites, and smart digital systems to create more efficiency, visibility, and autonomy. Through website creation, AI support, digital resources, and practical business tools, Wanderlust Atlas helps clients simplify the way they work, reduce wasted time, strengthen their online presence, and adapt to a rapidly changing digital world. The goal is not just to help businesses keep up with technology, but to help people use it in meaningful, practical ways that lead to greater clarity, stronger positioning, and more freedom in both business and lifestyle. Wanderlust Atlas is built on the idea that AI is the mechanism, but freedom is the outcome.

The Atlas Journal

Why I Chose the Ocean Over a White Picket Fence

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

I Left the Life Everyone Told Me I Should Want—And Found ...

The Deep Stuff - Introduction READ THIS FIRST