On being Nomadic

Where are you from?

It’s the first question people ask, and for most, it has a simple answer. A state. A city. A place that anchors them. But when we answer, there’s a pause—a hesitation. Because our answer isn’t what they expect.

“Nowhere.”

Or maybe, “We don’t know.”

And that unsettles people. They tilt their heads slightly, trying to reconcile five kids with American accents who have no fixed address. “Well, where are you going back to?” That’s trickier. We’re not sure yet. The expressions shift. Some look concerned. Others intrigued. The conversation no longer fits into the neat, expected script. It opens up instead of closing down.

Perhaps the need for an answer is about certainty. A way to categorize, to relate. If we picked a state, they could tell us if they’ve been there, if they have family there. Instead, we exist in the in-between. Not tourists, not residents, but Americans re-discovering America. Seeing as much of it as we can, appreciating its history, its culture, its people.

The next question usually follows: “Aren’t the kids in school?”

“We homeschool.” Another pause. Another shift in expectations.

Maybe it’s that we don’t fit the mold. No steady job, no mortgage, no school pickups. Maybe that’s why I like seeing the mix of curiosity and bewilderment on people’s faces. They start to wonder: How do you do it? Five kids on the road? Why? Could I do it? Would I want to?

And that’s the moment I like best. Because the conversation isn’t just an exchange of facts—it becomes something bigger. A moment of possibility. A glimpse into a different way of living. One that doesn’t fit in a box, one that invites exploration instead of easy answers.

Life is complicated. And that’s okay. Maybe we don’t know where we’re from right now. Maybe we don’t need to.