I’ve spent my entire life moving from place to place.  We weren’t in the military, nor were my parents in jobs that required relocation.  I can’t say the reason for half the moves.  Eviction. Custody disputes.  Needing more room.  Needing less room.  It got to the point where I would joke, “Why bother cleaning my bedroom? We’ll just be moving soon.”

The moving didn’t end when I went away to college.  I’d only been at my apartment for a year and a half before I decided to move into a new one, breaking my lease in the process.  I tried to justify it.  It was closer to school.  Near my friends.  But it wasn’t long before I wanted to move again. It was all I knew.

When I first visited Hawaii, I had just finished my Junior year of college at the Art Academy of Cincinnati, studying photography.  I went into my Senior year with the idea that I would finish college then head to Hawaii.  I’d take a year off school, then off to Chicago or New York or wherever for my Masters.  Never staying still.

For my Senior Thesis, I decided to focus on my topsy-turvy childhood.  My first project was to go back to every house and apartment I’d ever lived in and photograph it.  I think I ended up with 17.

The plan had been to move to Hawaii the summer after I graduated.  Plans change; or rather, situations do.  School wasn’t going well– focusing on my childhood ended up being a bad decision, mentally, and I wound up overwhelmed and doubting my place in art school.  So I did what I do best.

I ran.

I ran as far as I could possibly go without leaving the country.

I ran four thousand miles.

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