When I was a kid, I came up with a theory—completely unresearched, just a thought that popped into my head and stuck with me: maybe people used to be nomads because of the weather.
It made perfect sense to me. I had just learned about birds migrating for the winter and how they fly south when it gets too cold. So I thought, why wouldn’t people do the same? Why would anyone just sit still in one place, waiting for storms or snow or heatwaves to pass, when they could simply move?
I didn’t know anything about historical climate patterns, ancient civilizations, or housing developments. I just had questions—and this one stuck. As I got older, I noticed that this theory kept resurfacing every time a natural disaster made headlines.
Flooding, tornadoes, hurricanes, wildfires—every time one of these events happened, I found myself thinking, should people even live there permanently? I don’t mean that judgmentally. I know people don’t always have the option to pick up and go. Jobs, family, economics, and deep generational ties keep people rooted. But the question still lingers: Is this a place meant for permanence?
Because here’s the truth—many of the most beautiful, fertile, or resource-rich places are also places prone to natural disruption. River valleys flood. Coastal towns get hurricanes. Plains face tornadoes. Deserts get scorching heat and wildfires. And yet, we build and rebuild, with the assumption that our homes and cities are forever.
I lived next to the Mississippi River for two years and saw firsthand how the water would rise and fall. Quiet one day, almost touching the roads another. There was a rhythm to it, a flow that didn’t ask for permission. That river wasn’t interested in our timetables or property lines. It was just being what it has always been: a river.
It’s strange, then, how we often act surprised when nature does what it naturally does. After a flood or a tornado, you’ll sometimes hear people say things like, “God must be angry.” But I don’t think that’s it at all. I think we forget—maybe even refuse to believe—that nature has a life of its own. The dry creek bed won’t stay dry forever. The wind won’t always be still. The ground beneath us can and will shift, and the skies can turn on us with little warning.
That’s not punishment. That’s nature.
And yet, modern life is built on the idea of permanence. We construct homes, sign 30-year mortgages, buy insurance policies, and make long-term plans. We treat the land as fixed, as if it’s supposed to adjust to us. But history—and nature—show us again and again that this isn’t how it works.
Maybe that childhood theory wasn’t so far off. Maybe being nomadic wasn’t just about hunting and gathering or avoiding enemies—it was about listening to the land. Moving with it. Responding to its rhythms instead of trying to dominate them.
I’m not saying we all need to pack up and start roaming again (though van life TikTok is trying). But maybe we need to rethink what “permanent housing” really means in places where nature is known to have the final say. Maybe our definitions of safety, security, and “home” need to evolve to include mobility, adaptability, and humility.
Because when we treat disasters like surprises—like interruptions—we miss the deeper truth: this is the natural flow of life. We can prepare, build better, relocate if necessary. But first, we have to remember that we’re not separate from nature. We’re a part of it.
And sometimes, just like the birds, we may need to move.
Reflection Questions for Readers:
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Are there places you’ve lived where the land seemed to “speak” in its own way—rising waters, strong winds, shifting earth?
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What does “permanence” mean to you, and has that definition changed over time?
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How can we honor both our desire to root and our need to adapt?
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