Michigan Girl Summer

I’ve been traveling full-time for a while now. Different cities, different beds, different time zones. I’ve gotten good at living out of a suitcase, jumping between Wi-Fi signals, adjusting to new routines over and over again. And for the most part, I love it. I chose this lifestyle on purpose.

 

But every summer, like clockwork, something in me pulls back home. Back to Michigan.

 

And when I finally get there, it’s like my whole body exhales.

 

There’s no other way to say it: coming home hits different.

 

 

The moment I pull into the driveway, it all comes rushing back. The smell of the house, the sound of the door closing behind me, the way the light falls across the kitchen floor at a certain time of day. It’s like stepping into a life that’s been paused, waiting for me to catch up.

 

And the best part? Nothing here asks me to explain where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing.

 

It’s not like being on the road, where you’re constantly meeting new people, giving the condensed version of your story, always keeping a little energy in reserve. Here, I can be tired. I can be quiet. I can just be.

 

I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I started coming back each summer.

 

 

Michigan summer isn’t about aesthetic views or curated moments. It’s familiar. It’s the smell of laundry detergent and freshly mowed grass. It’s dinner on the back deck while listening to the birds. It’s my dad asking me what I need from the grocery store.

 

It’s the same people, the same rhythms, the comforting realness.

 

After months of constantly being on, figuring out logistics, learning new cities, navigating different cultures and time zones, this kind of stillness feels rare. 

 

Sacred, even.

 

There’s no agenda. No performance.

 

Just space.

 

 

I go on walks in the state park, crossing over bridges where I took my prom photos. I run into people who still remember me from middle school. I help hoe the garden, even though I have no clue which plants are weeds.

 

It’s all so simple. So familiar. So deeply mine.

 

And that’s something full-time travel can never replicate.

 

Yes, it’s freeing to wake up in new places. Yes, it’s exciting to keep moving. But it’s also disorienting. It’s easy to lose track of yourself when nothing around you stays the same.

 

Home brings me back to center.

 

 

It reminds me of who I was before the itineraries, before the remote meetings and digital nomad tag. It grounds me in a way no other place can. Because no matter how far I go, Michigan still feels like the only place that doesn’t expect anything from me.

 

There’s no pressure to hustle here.

 

Just good food. Bald eagles. Beach days that last long after you sunburn because no one wants them to end. Family members yelling across the yard. Old friends who somehow still know exactly how to make me laugh.

 

I spend evenings watching the sun set over the lake. I fall asleep to the sound of crickets outside my window. I let myself be fully present, which is a luxury I sometimes forget I’m allowed to have.

 

This summer has reminded me (again) that it’s okay to pause. That returning isn’t the same as backtracking. That coming home, even temporarily, can be its own kind of progress.

 

Michigan girl summer is never perfect. The mosquitos are ruthless. I sunburn at least once.

 

But none of that matters.

 

 

It’s the one place I know where I don’t have to explain myself. Where I can be tired. Or quiet. Or fully present. Where I can drink coffee on the deck in my oldest sweatshirt and remember what it’s like to feel fully rooted.

 

Because for all the places I’ve loved around the world, there’s nothing quite like coming home.

 

And for me, that place will always be here.

 

Back where it all started.

 

Back to the familiar.

 

Back to Michigan.