Born to Roam: A Love Letter to the Nomadic Life

Traveling—it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.
~ Ibn Battuta

When I reflect on my life, I’m often surprised by how beautifully it’s unfolded. I’ve come a long way from gazing at cornfields on the edge of Omaha, Nebraska—a Black girl whose spirit echoed the ancestors who walked the Trail of Tears. Travel, I believe, has always been in my blood. I’m the daughter of nomads who moved through land and legacy, dancing across borders and embracing the world’s wonder with open arms.

The storyteller in me knows that it’s not just about the tales I write—it’s about the life I live. I could never imagine being bound to a desk, watching life pass by through a clock’s cruel rhythm, slowly dying inside four beige walls. And while some find comfort in stillness, I find freedom in movement. Transition is my companion. I carry stories in my footsteps, planting seeds in foreign soil with every arrival.

In ten days, I’ll turn 38. And my mother has finally accepted that for me, change isn’t optional—it’s oxygen. Still, I long for a partner in purpose. Someone who’d rather spend 60 days caravanning through the tropics than settling behind a picket fence. I can’t see trading in this life for quiet cul-de-sacs and fearful neighbors who avoid connection. I’d rather be a renter on the run—laughing with strangers, living on purpose, embracing the unknown like a trusted friend.

I dance with stories too wild for words, stories told in the smiles of strangers and the breeze of a new place. I don’t need to explain it—I just need to breathe it. Change doesn’t scare me. I welcome it like a revolution.

So I ask you: Are you a dancer or a spectator?
If you’re the latter, no shade. As Jay-Z says, “This ain’t for everybody.”
But I know now—it’s for me.

#TheNomadicChick
#ChaJones
#WomenOfColorLivingAbroad