I’ve been thinking about that word.
Groundless.
It wasn’t something I planned. I didn’t sit down and try to come up with a name for any of this. It just. . . fit.
And the more I’ve sat with it, the more I’ve realized it holds everything I’ve been trying to explain without having the language for it. Not just what this looks like, but what it feels like to live inside it.
Groundless isn’t just being somewhere new.
People move all the time. They pack their things, say their goodbyes, and land somewhere unfamiliar, but chosen. There’s still something underneath them. Even when it’s hard, there’s a sense that they can settle in, build something, make it theirs.
This is different.
I didn’t choose this place.
I didn’t decide to leave my home, my people, my routines, or everything that made my life feel like mine. I was brought here.
Forced into a place that doesn’t belong to me, without the things or people that made anything feel stable. Dropped into a life I didn’t build and told to figure it out anyway.
There’s no familiar rhythm to fall back on. No sense of “I know how to do this here.” Even the small things take effort. Where to go. How to get there. Who to ask. What’s allowed. What isn’t.
Everything feels provisional. Like nothing is fully mine to rely on.
That’s the part people don’t see when they hear “released.”
Released doesn’t always mean free. Sometimes it just means you’re out, but not back. It means you’re somewhere—but not where you belong.
And there’s nothing under you that feels solid while you try to make sense of it. No familiar ground. No support system. No clear direction.
Just. . . this.
This. . . unfamiliar place.
Even more than a year later, it’s still unfamiliar. With a version of life that doesn’t feel like mine, yet it’s somehow the one I have to live in.
That’s what groundless means.
It isn’t exactly lost. It’s not wandering. It’s just here. In a place I didn’t choose, with no real footing and no stability. And still doing it regardless.
Because there isn’t another option.
There’s no way back. No way out.
And no option but to keep going anyway.
Groundless in Arizona,
~Annie