Transformed Through Service: Three Volunteer Journeys That Changed MeLessons from Marathon, Bozeman, and Anchorage

Travel as More Than Sightseeing

For many, travel is an escape—an adventure into the unknown, a chance to explore new landscapes, immerse in different cultures, or simply break from routine. We often picture bustling cities, sweeping mountain vistas, or sunlit beaches. But over the years, I’ve found that my most transformative journeys weren’t about where I went—they were about what I gave.

I never set out to be a volunteer traveler. In the beginning, my trips were driven by the thrill of movement, the pursuit of places that felt wild and untouched. But somewhere along the way, I discovered that travel could mean more. It could be rooted not in what I hoped to take in, but in what I was willing to offer.

It began with a single project: a Habitat for Humanity build in a place I’d never been, for people I’d never met. I had no idea how much that simple act—showing up, putting hammer to nail—would shift my entire understanding of what it meant to travel. It wasn’t just about constructing walls. It was about building connection, rebuilding dignity—and, in the process, becoming stronger myself.

Each project added another layer to that understanding. From storm-battered neighborhoods in Florida to the frozen edges of Alaska, every experience tested me physically and emotionally. At times, it pushed me to my limits.

But in those moments—amid the exhaustion, the sweat, the laughter, and shared stories—I found a different kind of fulfillment. One that didn’t fade when the trip ended. One that stayed with me long after I packed my bags and moved on.

Because at its core, travel isn’t just about the places we see. It’s about the people we meet, the connections we forge. And sometimes, the most meaningful journeys aren’t the ones that take us far from home—they’re the ones that bring us closer to something greater than ourselves.

Rebuilding After the Storm: Marathon, Florida

(Resilience in the Face of Loss)

When I arrived in Marathon, Florida, the scars of Hurricane Irma were still fresh. The effects of the hurricane were still very visible. Areas had been gutted by wind and water, and the air carried the heavy scent of damp wood, salt, and the lingering ache of loss. The once-colorful coastal town now had streets lined with piles of debris—broken furniture, shattered windows, waterlogged memories.

For months, families had been living in FEMA trailers, waiting—hoping—that their homes could be salvaged. One family I met had lost everything. The father, a fisherman, had not only lost his home but his boat—his livelihood, his independence, his sense of stability. The house that had once echoed with his children’s laughter was now stripped to its skeletal framework, a shell of what had been.

Yet, despite all of it, he spoke with gratitude.

"Every day you all show up," he told me, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, "it gets a little easier to believe we’ll get back on our feet."

But rebuilding wasn’t just about raising walls. It was about reclaiming a sense of home—one step, one repair, one act of restoration at a time.

My days in Marathon were spent building new stairs and decks, remodeling bathrooms, and repurposing discarded cabinets into something functional again. What had been tossed aside—old vanities, salvaged wood, excess pieces of kitchens—became part of something new. A fresh coat of paint could turn a space from temporary to permanent. A rebuilt deck could bring back a place where families would once again gather at sunset.

I still remember standing back, looking at a set of stairs I had just finished rebuilding, knowing that soon, feet would tread on them—kids running inside after playing in the yard, a mother standing at the top to call them in for dinner. It wasn’t just about the materials—it was about giving a family back the small, everyday things that make a house feel like home.

None of this would have been possible without David May, the project manager and a dedicated member of the Habitat for Humanity team in Marathon. David was more than a leader—he was a bridge. He welcomed me not just into the Habitat family, but into the community itself. He introduced me to the people of Marathon, made sure I felt connected, and embodied what it meant to serve with both hands and heart. His passion for rebuilding wasn’t just about construction—it was about restoring dignity and hope to those who had lost so much.

David’s generosity and tireless commitment to the cause made an impact on me. His leadership wasn’t just about logistics or schedules—it was about making every volunteer feel like they belonged. And through him, I didn’t just show up to work—I became a part of something bigger.

What I Learned:

Resilience isn’t just about rebuilding houses—it’s about restoring dignity, familiarity, and hope.

And sometimes, it’s about people like David May, who remind us that service isn’t just about fixing what’s broken—it’s about welcoming others into the work of healing.

The Power of Second Chances: Housing First Village, Bozeman, MT

(Dignity Through Shelter)

Bozeman’s Housing First Village wasn’t just another housing project—it was an experiment in breaking the cycle of homelessness. Unlike shelters that offer a bed for the night or government programs that focus on long-term subsidized housing, this initiative was designed as a stepping stone.

The goal wasn’t to provide permanent housing—it was to give individuals a structured, temporary home where they could experience stability, develop responsibility, and learn what it meant to maintain a home of their own. Each unit was a small, private home meant to be occupied for six months—long enough for residents to regain their footing, build confidence, and work toward securing a permanent place to live.

For so many who had spent years on the streets, the barriers to housing weren’t just financial—they were psychological, emotional, and systemic. Without a home, it’s difficult to apply for a job, maintain personal hygiene, or keep track of basic documents. Without a sense of responsibility, it’s hard to transition from survival mode to structured living.

The Housing First Village aimed to change that mindset. It wasn’t a free ride. Residents had expectations—they had to contribute to the community, follow the rules, and take accountability for their space. This was their trial run for homeownership—a chance to learn and prove, to themselves and to others, that they could handle the responsibility.

The Experience of Building a Foundation for Change

My days in Bozeman were spent physically laying the groundwork for these second chances—helping build the very structures that would serve as the first stable homes many of these individuals had ever known. My time there was shorter than I had planned. I had hoped to volunteer longer, but my health had other ideas, and I needed to rest. 

I worked alongside volunteers, local tradespeople, and even some of the future residents.  Together, we built walls, installed fixtures, painted interiors, and made sure each unit was functional and welcoming. It wasn’t just about putting up structures—it was about creating spaces where people could begin again.

What struck me was the effort to build a community within a community. There was already a clinic onsite where many of these future residents were receiving support. Linking access to housing as the next step was a powerful move toward healing the whole person.

I remember wondering then—would this actually work? Could someone who had spent years on the streets really transition into maintaining a home? Would they rise to the responsibility, or would it prove to be too much?

Following Up: Did It Work?

Years later, I followed up on the project, wanting to know whether the time, effort, and resources had been worth it. The results bowled me over.

Many of the residents who had gone through the program had successfully transitioned into permanent housing. They had found jobs, maintained stable living situations, and—most importantly—regained a sense of control over their lives. What had once seemed like a temporary structure had become a true foundation for change. The program worked—not just by providing a roof overhead but by offering enough stability for people to take the next step forward. Temporary shelter had become the springboard for lasting transformation.

What struck me the most was this: the initiative had given people the chance to prove something—not just to society, but to themselves. That they were capable. That they could manage a home. That they could rebuild.

What Did I Learn?

I went to the Bozeman work site expecting to help others. What I didn’t expect was how much the experience would shift something in me. I’ve always believed in second chances—but this was the first time I saw, brick by brick, what it meant to build one.

I learned that dignity isn’t given—it’s reclaimed. And sometimes all it takes is a door that locks, a light switch that works, and a space that’s your own. That small structures can create massive change—not because of their physical form, but because of what they represent: stability, ownership, and a sense of worth.

I learned that transformation starts with trust—not just others trusting you, but learning to trust yourself again. Many of the residents hadn’t had that in a long time. And yet, when offered a structured, supportive environment, they rose to the occasion. Not perfectly, not easily—but honestly.

I also learned that my role doesn’t have to be grand to be meaningful. Even though my time on the project was shorter than I had hoped, I contributed to something real. I helped build a foundation—not just of wood and nails, but of possibility.

Most importantly, I learned that second chances only matter if someone believes you’re worth one. Bozeman’s Housing First Village believed. And so did the people who stepped inside those doors, for the first time in a long time, daring to believe in themselves.

Strength in the Cold: Two Weeks in Anchorage, Alaska

(The Hard Work of Giving Back)

I arrived in Anchorage expecting the worst—frigid Arctic winds, deep snowbanks, and biting cold. Back home on Cape Cod, the winter of 2014–2015 had been relentless. I’d just finished shoveling ten feet of snow off my roof—an exhausting routine that felt like it would never end. Boston had shattered all-time snowfall records. Our streets were buried, roofs sagged underweight, and everyone I knew was bone-tired. So naturally, I braced for something even harsher in Alaska.

But Alaska had other plans.

Instead of snowdrifts and subzero winds, I stepped into a place experiencing one of its warmest winters in decades. There wasn’t a single flake of snow on the ground in Anchorage. Temperatures hovered in the 40s. Sidewalks were muddy instead of icy. It was jarring—almost comical—especially considering what I had left behind. Back home was buried; Alaska was thawing.

Even the Iditarod, Alaska’s legendary dog sled race, had to adapt. Local crews trucked in hundreds of loads of snow just to stage the ceremonial start in downtown Anchorage. But the official race? Moved north to Fairbanks for only the second time in history because there simply wasn’t enough snow to safely launch the teams from their usual starting point. Alaskans joked that the East Coast had stolen their winter, and honestly, they weren’t wrong.

Still, even without the snow, the work we came to do didn’t let up.

Our Global Village team, part of Habitat for Humanity’s “I-Did-Build” project, showed up ready to build—snow or no snow. We split our time between outdoor and indoor tasks: framing and sheathing walls in the open air insulating and finishing interiors inside. The physical labor was real. Days started early and ended with sore muscles I hadn’t felt in years. There were moments I questioned whether I could keep going. But I wasn’t alone. Around me were twenty other volunteers—some younger, some older—all carrying the same commitment. Local Habitat staff and the future homeowners worked alongside us every day, with their energy and resolve to push us forward.

That’s where I found the real strength. Not in how much I could lift or how long I could last, but in the choice to show up—every day, ready to serve.

We stayed in a local church—modest, warm, and filled with shared purpose. We cooked breakfast together, cleaned up at a nearby gym, and shared dinners with local families who welcomed us into their homes with unbelievable generosity. One night, we sat down to grilled salmon, halibut, and moose kebabs. Another evening, we found ourselves swapping stories with a retired Iditarod musher, surrounded by his pack of retired sled dogs—each one still buzzing with the wild energy of the race.

We didn’t just build houses—we became part of the community. We visited the Anchorage Zoo the Iditarod Museum, and got a glimpse into how mushers train for one of the toughest races in the world. Our timing aligned with the ceremonial start, and we stood along the snowy trail downtown, bundled in borrowed layers, watching the dogs and mushers charge forward. There was a quiet power in that moment. It felt like we were witnessing a piece of Alaskan identity in motion—rooted in grit, tradition, and pride.

That spirit mirrored the work we were doing. The homes we helped build weren’t abstract—they were real shelters for real families. Some had come from overcrowded apartments, others from displacement or homelessness. And now, they were building futures—right there with us, hammer in hand.

On our final day, we held a house blessing. We wrote messages and prayers directly onto the studs—quiet notes that would be sealed into the walls. Hidden, but never lost. It was a simple moment, but one that pulled everything together.

What I Learned

Giving back doesn’t always look the way you imagine. I came to Alaska bracing for brutal weather—and instead found something else entirely: warmth. Not from the sun but from the people. From shared meals, laughter, and the quiet, tired satisfaction at the end of a day’s work. Giving back isn’t about being strong—it’s about being present. It’s about committing to something bigger than yourself. And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give is simply showing up, open-hearted ready to serve.

Final Reflection

These projects weren’t just about building homes—they were about rebuilding lives, including mine.

Volunteering on the road taught me that real service isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about showing up, doing the work, and listening—really listening—to the stories of others. It’s about learning that a rebuilt stairway can mean hope, that a tiny home can spark transformation, and that shared meals can turn strangers into neighbors.

I didn’t always get it right. Sometimes my body gave out before my heart did. Sometimes I questioned whether my small efforts were enough. But I kept learning: that presence matters more than perfection. That offering your hands, your time, and your attention can create ripples far beyond what you’ll ever see.

What these journeys gave me was perspective—on resilience, dignity, and the quiet strength that comes from community. They reminded me that service isn’t about fixing people. It’s about walking beside them as they reclaim what was lost.

Travel will always be about discovery. But now, for me, the most meaningful discoveries happen not in the landscapes, but in the lives. Not in what I take with me, but in what I leave behind.

Thom