Circling vultures were the first thing I noticed upon moving to Cape Coral in 2020. Sure, we have long been trained to wince at these so-called harbingers of death, but I was instantly enamored. 

Vultures to me are majestic and savvy, knowing how to use the air currents to simply float through the sky. And that death stuff – well, whatever. 

Little did I know that death had indeed been in store during my five years in the Cape. It had come as a series of demises that ripped me to shreds at my very core. It was the total annihilation of the old me. 

I moved to Florida with red-purple hair, a fiancé, a thriving freelance writing career, and two dogs. Upon leaving I had silver-grey hair, an ex-fiancé and a massive shift in my career that traded helping people write their blog posts to helping people heal their soul. 

The thrill of dying my hair freakishly beautiful colors died. The 15-year relationship died. The once-thriving freelance journalist and writer who was clinging to a career that no longer suited her died. And yes, one of my dogs died. 

All of it hurt like hell at the time. When I made the decision to move back to my Arizona homebase, family members even asked, “Are you sorry you moved to Florida at all?” 

No way. Florida was meant to be. It had long been on my bucket list of places to live. If I had not given it a go it would have stayed there like that annoying rock in your shoe you’re too lazy to bend over and fish out. 

Besides, where else could I watch a tourist family of four actually move in the water toward the scene of a shark ripping up a piece of wildlife in the shallows. 

“C’mere kids! Look at this!” 

Yes. Florida is home to the absurd. Exotic. Subtropic. Powerful. And just the place for some of the greatest lessons to take place. 

Like how Thomas Edison got it all wrong. I initially picked to live in Cape Coral because I heard Edison hypothesized the area was the least likely to get hit by hurricanes. Anyone who lived through 2022’s Hurricane Ian would be ready to argue that one. 

Ian was another sign that all I once knew was going to be mercilessly stripped away. At the time, however, my only focus was wondering if I’d still have my online writing jobs after some four weeks without the internet. 

The lesson here is that things come, things go. Nothing is permanent. And while you definitely rebuild after loss, you’re going to get cranky if you’re trying to recreate an exact duplicate what is already gone. 

Gain peace by building something new (although I would have been totally fine without having to build a new fence). 

The high humidity taught me that things rot fast if they’re no longer alive. Like the dead possum in my Cape backyard that actually disintegrated in about three hours. Not kidding. 

This lesson definitely applied to the 15-year relationship, which had been a mushy shell of what it once was just waiting for the catalyst to vaporize it altogether.   

The noseeums taught me that it’s the tiny irritants that’ll get you. Our instinct and grit automatically kick in to get through the big things. But we just try to ignore the little things. Those are the things that will drive us insane. 

This lesson applies to the intuitive hits telling me that sitting and writing at a computer all day was stifling rather than fueling my soul. 

That brings us to leaving the paper. I continued to write for the paper after my November move to Arizona because it had started out fun and natural – and it’s owned by the coolest Cape Coral couple I ever met. 

But I noticed it stopped feeling natural. It was part of the old me that had already dissolved. It was like trying to force a mangrove to thrive in a climate built for towering saguaros. 

This does not mean I’ll stop writing in general – my new “Phantoms of the Desert” book is already in the works. This does not mean I’ll stop loving vultures or beaches or the absurdity of tourists. 

And it certainly doesn’t mean I’ll stop having a special place in my heart for the Cape Coral community and the glorious people I’ve met during my Southwest Florida chapter. 

It just means I’m turning the page to something new. You’ll find me in Tucson baking Love into the desert, helping people and their pets walk through trauma and grief.

Writing books that make our souls dance. Hosting an online show about hauntings and healing. Painting crazy murals on my carport.

All while gloriously single with my best-buddy dog, my silver-grey hair shimmering in the twilight as we both howl our hearts out beneath the moon. 

The Final Exhale

I am howling. I am home.

Join the Pack: The Dark Moon Extraction

The Florida chapter is dead. The desert vow begins now.

I am hosting a formal business launch and desert ritual at the Fort Lowell Park hospital ruins on June 13th. We will be doing a live demonstration of the Emotion Code, grounding into the Wolf Frequency, and officially breaking the cage.

RSVP for your Free Ticket on Viewcy

Rynski Wolf Doula | Energy Alchemist | Somatic Frequency Consultant