Imagine this. My ancestor John Howland was swept off the Mayflower one night in the middle of a storm. Thrown straight into the black waters of the Atlantic, he vanished into the chaos of waves: cold, dark, a giant ship pitching above him, sliding away into the night. He should have been done. But somehow, through instinct or sheer refusal to let his story end there, he grabbed a rope trailing alongside the ship and held on. Long enough for the crew to haul him back on deck. Long enough to build a life he had not finished living. Long enough to become one of the founders of a world that did not exist yet. If he hadn’t grabbed that rope, I wouldn’t be here.

Grab The Rope

I think about that moment often. A man overboard pawing for the one thing that might save him. People talk about Pilgrims as though they were carved from granite, unwavering and perfect in hindsight, serious to the core. But the truth is, they were terrified and unsure. They were not icons. They were human beings improvising their way through storms with faith, stubbornness, and whatever courage they could scrape together.

Maybe that is why my idea of John Howland has always lived somewhere in me. For years, I stayed on a ship that did not feel like mine: corporate creative life, deadlines, unending commutes, making things that looked good but left me hollow. I tried to make it fit. I squeezed myself into roles and expectations that dulled the parts of me that had always been restless and alive. I felt like a passenger on a vessel heading somewhere I had not chosen.

Going Overboard

Eventually, I slipped. Or jumped. Or was pushed. The details do not matter. What matters is that I went overboard. Leaving New York, leaving the paycheck and the comfortable routine, felt like hitting cold water. Shocking, disorienting, and somehow liberating. But somewhere inside that chaos, I found my rope and grabbed it without thinking.

Carrying Storms

Painting was part of it. So was moving to a tiny village in the French mountains and starting a gallery and studio in a space that still smells like oils and possibility. Building a life that was not pre-approved by managers or company goals. And then, little by little, other people showed up to draw as well. Artists, painters, wanderers, each carrying their own storms and lifelines. They did not haul me back to the life I had. They helped me climb onto a completely new ship.

Being Grateful

Living here with my broken French feels like a pilgrimage in its own. Conversations blur around me in cafés and markets. I catch fragments and hope I have not agreed to buy someone’s cow. And there is beauty in that. It is the same feeling I get when I am painting: trusting the gaps, trusting that meaning comes through effort, patience, and heart. Some days I draft bylaws for the nonprofit. Other days I fix easels for the figure drawing session or meet people in the Aude who ask, “Aren’t you Dave the Artist? Thank you for doing what you are doing.” Strangers saying “thank you” to me? It blows me away. None of it is clean or predictable, but it feels like a life finally moving forward for me, and for others. I’m so grateful.;

The Hard Part

The hardest part of this transition is the distance from my son. He’s the part of my old life I never wanted to leave behind. I was lucky enough to catch him for his 21st birthday and raise a pint and enjoy a slice of pizza at our local pub, and catch up on his life. I am so proud of him. The pain in the distance from him is real, but it’s part of the journey.

Now, I want him to see that a person can start over. It is okay to choose a path that feels true, even when people may not understand it. Life is not about clinging to the deck of a ship that’s not yours just because it is familiar. It is about recognizing the moment when you go overboard and having the wherewithal to grab the rope and hold on.

It Chooses you

This same quiet courage is woven into a new film I am working on, “It Chooses You.” It’s filled with people who left their old lives and rebuilt in the Occitan. People who did not drown in their storms. People who discovered, sometimes by accident, a new land they were meant to stand on.

A Pilgrim in my book are not just a historical category. They are anyone who steps into the unknown with hope, fear, and the navigation to keep going. I doubt myself all the time. I still miss my son, my parents, and family, but I know the Lab will grow, and the film will matter; I’m just not sure I will ever speak French well enough not to accidentally buy forty croissants with my coffee. But every day, something deep in me says I am now where I am supposed to be.

Dirty Hands

Starting over was not a political escape. It was a lifelong desire. A pilgrimage into a life that had been calling me for years. So I will keep going. Paint on my clothes. Charcoal on my hands. Continuing to build something small and honest that I hope will outlast me.

Maybe that is the part of the Pilgrim John Howland I carry with me. Not the near drowning or the icy waters or the rope, but the refusal to let the story end in the storm that was my old self. The instinct to climb back on deck, soaked and shaken, ready to begin again.