My heart sank at 3:00 a.m. to the sound of revving engines. After a year of digital nomading—chasing sunshine and changing Airbnbs like socks—I was ready to settle. Miami offered warm winters, a U.S. timezone, and no state income tax. A win-win-win, right?

I had just signed a lease on a beautiful apartment, filled with the naive optimism of someone who thinks double-pane windows are a match for Miami nightlife. Spoiler: they’re not. Packs of cars and motorcycles screeched through the streets like it was a Fast & Furious casting call, and my apartment was the unwilling sound stage. Anchored by a lease I had just signed and slowly tortured by mufflerless V8s, I suddenly felt stuck.

For a few days, I sulked. Then I got to work. I built a pillow fort for grown-ups: soundproof paneling, acoustic tiles, wax earplugs, and a phone blasting white noise to gaslight myself into believing I was at the ocean. It wasn’t perfect, but at least I could sleep through most nights. As more furniture filled the space, the echoes softened, and the place started to feel livable again.

Gradually, I leaned into the perks of the new space. I rekindled my love of cooking—Costco and Amazon same-day delivery felt like living in the future. I found a health clinic nearby, picked up cryo and red-light therapy, and brought back my treadmill desk for a steady diet of 10k steps a day. After months of charming but inconsistent Airbnbs, it was refreshing to design a space that actually worked.

With a livable baseline reestablished, I turned my attention outward. Was there more to Miami than overpriced brunch and bass drops at 3 a.m.? I dusted off my PADI license and booked a dive trip off the coast.

My first descent in over a year was a rude reminder of how out of practice I was. I fumbled with gear setup and ran through emergency protocols in my head. As I dropped beneath the surface, a massive silhouette emerged—Neptune’s Memorial, an underwater gravesite turned artificial reef. Dozens of torpedo-shaped barracuda hovered like sentries, their unblinking eyes slowly tracking my descent. A rusted hook dangled from one of their jaws. The mood was gothic, eerie—sunlight diffused to gloom. Coral grew over names etched into underwater mausoleums. Ashes of the dead mixed with concrete formed large, square tunnels. It was beautiful, in a haunting kind of way. It was hard to imagine the bright Miami day still existed overhead.

Dive two was lighter. I felt more at ease—like an astronaut floating in zero-Gs. We skimmed over bright coral gardens and kept lookout for lobster antennae poking from the rocks. When I spotted a massive spiny lobster, the dive masters wrangled it and handed it off to me like some kind of living trophy.

Then came the shark.

A nurse shark lay still in a coral canyon on a soft bed of sand—seemingly at peace, until I noticed a glint of silver in its side. A large fishing hook, lodged deep, its line tangled on a rock. I motioned to the others but was only met with confusion. I got closer. The shark twitched and thrashed as I freed the line. Then, in a single motion, it darted into the blue and vanished.

Not long after that experience, I realized it was time to leave Miami. A few years ago, my brother had bought a home and during the inspection, had discovered extreme radon levels. Radon is an odorless radioactive gas responsible for over 21,000 deaths per year in the U.S. alone. The previous owner, upon hearing the news, said he wished he had tested the house earlier—his wife had just passed from lung cancer. She never smoked.

Since then, I travel with a portable air quality monitor. When I tested the air in my Miami apartment, the radon levels were equivalent to smoking 6–10 cigarettes a day. That was the final straw. I packed up, put my stuff in storage, and cut myself loose.