It was during a dusky solo walk through Killarney National Park — the kind of Irish evening that hums with gold light and bee song — that I stumbled into one of my many imagined lives. The trees arched like cathedrals, the hills rolled in soft green ripples, and from the quiet forest emerged Muckross Abbey, its ancient stone softened by moss, its open roof framing a yew tree that had lived through centuries. In that moment, it was easy to believe: If I lived here, everything would be different.
In this dream, I would rise early, pull on a thick sweater, and walk these same woods, letting the cool air fill my lungs. I’d write poems in a cottage garden, drink endless cups of Barry’s tea, and maybe — just maybe — fall in love with a rugged sheep farmer named Seamus. By the time I made it back to the hotel, I was elbow-deep in real estate listings on MyHome.ie, mapping out a new identity to fit my new imaginary address.
And then the vacation ended, and we flew back to Oregon.
There’s that phrase — No matter where you go, there you are. But I don’t believe that. I’ve lived a thousand lives in a thousand cities, and in each one, I was someone slightly (or wildly) different.
In London, I became a compulsive walker, ditching my Netflix queue to lead unofficial tours for anyone who would join me. Something about the city’s rhythm — its layered history and surprising quiet corners — made me endlessly curious, energized. In New Zealand, I transformed into Adventure Marian: yoga teacher, environmental volunteer, mountain hiker. Spain softened me into someone flirtier, freer — a woman who tanned topless on Mediterranean beaches and lingered in plazas with cheap wine and late-night laughter.
In San Francisco, I was all about the rituals of a new age — perfecting my avocado toast, sipping single-origin pour-overs, discussing “disruptive tech” with the wide-eyed fervor of a convert. Later, in Germany, I leaned into my practical side. My straightforwardness, once considered abrupt, suddenly made sense in a place that revered directness and well-organized trash.
Each version of me felt vivid and true. Each city, a stage for reinvention. That’s the thing about our twenties: they offer so many open doors, and we rush through them with the optimism of someone who hasn’t yet grown tired of unpacking boxes or re-learning how the grocery store works.
But now, at 37, I’m sitting at the kitchen table in Portland, Oregon. I’ve lived here for four years. A laundry basket stares me down from across the room. Our kitchen counters are cluttered with school forms, half-finished snacks, and plastic dinosaurs. This life — wife, mother, grocery-shopper-in-chief — is as real as any other. And honestly? I love it. I love our garden. I love our neighbors, one of whom replaced our stolen gnome with a surprise trio of new ones. I love our coffee machine so much that I moaned about it after returning from Ireland.
Still, my alter ego isn’t dead. She just lives on Zillow.
Most nights, as my husband snores beside me, I scroll listings with a mixture of longing and mischief. An apartment in Amsterdam with high ceilings and a crooked staircase — there, I’d be a bicycle-riding artist who buys tulips and smokes a little too much. A farmhouse in Vermont? I’d host cider-fueled Halloween parties and knit scarves by the fireplace. Last winter, at a writing residency on Whidbey Island, I even started texting my husband Zillow links with captions like, “We could rent the barn out for weddings!”
These daydreams aren’t about dissatisfaction. They’re breadcrumbs — small ways I keep track of the women I used to be, and the ones I haven’t quite become. They remind me that inside the steady rhythm of family life, creativity and longing still flicker. That even if I’m folding laundry in Portland, I’m also the poet in Kerry, the entrepreneur in Vermont, the romantic in Barcelona. Zillow isn’t just a real estate site — it’s a portal to a multiverse of self.
Do I sometimes want to burn it all down and start fresh on a wind-whipped island in Maine? Yes. Do I realize that wherever I go, there will still be dishes in the sink and unexpected dentist bills? Of course.
But that’s not the point.
The point is to keep the door open. To imagine new possibilities. To allow the edges of our identity to stay fluid, even when our routines harden. The woman I am now was built by all the women I’ve been. And the ones I dream about? They keep me alive, curious, uncontained.
So tonight, I’ll sip my tea, fluff the couch pillows, and tiptoe through cobblestone streets in my mind. I’ll toggle between an Italian villa and a Colorado cabin, and somewhere between them, I’ll find myself again — one version among many.
Because I’ve learned this: the life I live is real. But so are the lives I haven’t lived yet.
