I live among you. I observe you. I admire your culture.

I walk your markets on Saturday mornings carrying the most beautiful strawberries that bruise too easily in those paper bags. I stand shoulder to shoulder with you at the boulangerie waiting for just out-of-the-oven baguettes. I sit at café terraces with a Spritz pretending I understand every word floating around me when really I catch only fragments.

Sometimes, I may even look like I belong here. I shop at your gorgeous boutiques. Sezanne, Soeur and so many others that I love.

Until I open my mouth.

Then everything gives me away.

My accent.
My hesitation.
The way I search for vocabulary mid-sentence like someone fumbling for keys in the dark.

The overly enthusiastic “bonjour.” The way I don’t quite land the “r” correctly.

The accidental verb tense disasters. The fact that I used “tu” instead of “vous.””

The panic in my eyes when you respond in rapid French and I realize I understood absolutely nothing after the first three words.

And suddenly, there it is again.

That look.

The furrowed brow.
The squint.
The tiny pause.

Not cruel exactly. Just… confused.

Like your brain is trying to solve a puzzle.

I know you are not trying to be rude.

I know French is a beautiful language, and hearing it butchered probably feels painful at times. Like nails on a chalkboard.

But I want you to understand something.

I am trying so hard.

You do not see the thousands of hours I’ve spent trying to learn your language. All for one small interaction that may still turn awkward at the pharmacy.

The French podcasts playing while I fold laundry.
The French children’s books I attempt to read because adult novels still feel too difficult.
The French subtitles while I watch my favorite French series: “L’Agence” and “Dix Percent.”
The verb tenses I try to memorize while making coffee.
The moments I rehearse an entire sentence in my head, only to forget one key word the second it is my turn to speak.

You see one clumsy interaction.

I feel the weight of every single one.

And maybe that is what I wish I could explain most clearly to you about being an étrangère.

It is humbling in a way I never experienced in America.

To sound less intelligent than you are.
Less funny.
Less sharp.
Less yourself.

To have your personality trapped behind vocabulary you cannot fully access yet.

Some days it feels like being reduced from a capable woman into a gesture.

A smile.
A nod.
A hopeful “merci beaucoup.”

And still, I keep trying.

Because living in another country without learning the language feels like standing outside a house pressing your face against the window, watching life happen inside.

I do not want to just observe your culture.

I want to understand it.

And in many ways, I have fallen in love with it.

I love that meals still matter here.

That lunch is not something inhaled over a keyboard while answering emails.

I love that children are expected to sit at the table and participate in life instead of running around it with snacks and screens.

I love that your cafés stay full because people here still believe conversation and togetherness deserve time.

I love that you protect pleasure here. Fiercely.

An apéro in the sun.
Fresh bread every day.
A proper vacation in August (and many other times too).
A long dinner that stretches late into the evening before anyone even thinks to ask for the check.

You have taught me that life is not something to constantly chase.

Americans are always trying to improve life.

You are often trying to enjoy it.

That difference changed me more than I expected.

But since we are being honest with each other, there are also things I wish I could gently say back to you.

Sometimes the rigidity here feels exhausting.

The rules.
The structure.
The invisible social codes everyone seems to know except you.

Lunch from twelve to two. Not later.
Dinner after seven. Never before.
Aperitifs before dinner only.
Goûter for children, usually something sweet. Usually served between four and six in the afternoon.

Sometimes I want to put my arm around you affectionately and say:

What if we just ate dinner at five because the kids are tired?

What if we drank champagne in the middle of the afternoon, outside of a meal or apéro?

What if we smiled a little more at strangers simply because life is hard and human warmth matters?

Americans can be loud, excessive, overly cheerful, and painfully unaware sometimes. Trust me, I see it too.

But there is also something beautiful in our openness.

We will tell strangers our life stories in a checkout line.
We will compliment someone’s shoes with genuine enthusiasm.
We will be casual about our meals.
We will smile because we mean well and like the exchange.

Sometimes I miss that ease.

And yet, living here has made me softer in good ways too.

Slower.
More present.
Less rushed through my own life.

I notice things now.

The way sunlight hits the terracotta roofs around six o’clock.
The sound of your language mixed with live music and clinking glasses on a terrace near a fountain.

The ritual of buying fish from the same market vendor every week until eventually he remembers your face, smiles at you and starts handing you free lemons.

There is beauty in repetition here.

Beauty in restraint.

Beauty in not constantly trying to become someone else.

So this is not criticism.

It is simply what it feels like to live inside another culture while still carrying your own inside you too.

To belong partially to both places and completely to neither.

And maybe that is what being an étrangère really is.

Not rejection.

Not loneliness exactly.

But existing in the space between understanding and misunderstanding every single day.

Still, I am grateful.

Grateful for your country.
Grateful for the life my children are experiencing here.
Grateful that living among you forced me to question so many things I once accepted automatically about my own culture and myself.

You have changed me.

But here is what I have come to believe.

We are not so different in the ways that matter most.

We are just people. Humans trying to make a good life, find meaning, raise children who turn out okay, love the people next to us, and squeeze as much out of this one life as we possibly can.

You do it with elegance and discipline and a commitment to pleasure that I deeply admire.

I do it a little louder, sometimes with a giant water bottle and a glass of wine before apéro (maybe even as early as 4pm).

Maybe there is room for both.

To my French co-habitants: I see you. I am grateful for you.

And if you ever want to have dinner at five, I will gladly pour the wine and make sure it coordinates perfectly with the meal.

Avec respect,
An American woman still trying her best in Provence

A slight furrowing of the eyebrows.
The straightening of the mouth.
A tiny shrug.
Sometimes a soft “bfff” under their breath.

Not angry. Not exactly judgmental either.

Just… deeply puzzled.

The first time I experienced this was three days after moving to Aix-en-Provence from California.

It was August. The kind of southern France heat that makes your shirt stick to your back before noon. We had two young children who were sweaty, jet-lagged, hungry, and rapidly approaching meltdown territory.

We found a little takeaway pasta place and ordered buttered noodles with parmesan because it felt safe and familiar for the kids.

Across the street was something called “French Tacos,” which I naïvely assumed meant tacos like we ate in California. Instead, we opened the container to discover fries, fried chicken, melted cheese, and unidentified chopped meat fused together in a strange glorious pile.

We carried our food to a bench beside the fountain in the main square.

Wooden forks. Wooden knives. Kids spilling parmesan everywhere.

And then came the looks.

An older man slowed as he passed us. Looked down at the pasta container balanced on my lap.

“Bon appétit,” he said with a tiny sarcastic laugh before walking away.

At the time, I thought:

Wow. The French are rude.

Now, three years later, I understand what was actually happening.

To them, we looked bizarre.

Not because of what we were eating.

Because of how we were eating it.

Eating Is Not Meant to Feel Efficient

In France, meals are not something to squeeze in between errands.

You do not inhale pasta from a cardboard container with wooden cutlery beside a fountain while checking your phone and wiping sunscreen off your child’s face.

You sit down.

You use real silverware.

You pause between bites.

Even lunch on a random Tuesday is treated like something deserving of attention.

If you absolutely must eat while walking, it should be something held in your hands. A sandwich. A folded slice of pizza. A crêpe.

But pasta with plastic forks on a public bench?

Très bizarre.

And honestly, I get it now.

The Things Americans Carry Around

One of the fastest ways to spot an American in France is the oversized water bottle.

The giant Stanleys. The brightly colored Owalas. The emotional support hydration jugs.

The French seem fascinated by them.

Not in an admiring way.

More in a: Are they crossing the Sahara Desert later? sort of way.

You rarely see French adults carrying water around all day. Water belongs at meals. Served in glasses. Usually room temperature. Never packed with ice cubes the size of golf balls.

The first few months we lived here, I kept placing my giant water bottle on café tables like an accessory.

Now even I can see how absurd it looked next to a tiny espresso.

The Smile Incident

One American friend told me about her first corporate event in Paris.

She smiled warmly at a man she had just met. Big American smile. Friendly. Open.

Later that evening, he approached her at the bar and asked if she was a prostitute.

She was horrified.

But in France, overly enthusiastic smiling at strangers can read as flirtation or invitation, especially from women toward men.

This was shocking to me at first.

In America, smiling is practically social currency. We smile while passing strangers on hikes. We smile apologetically in elevators. We smile while ordering coffee, while uncomfortable, while angry, while exhausted.

The French reserve warmth differently.

It is not immediate.

It unfolds over time.

Busy Is Not a Personality Trait

One thing the French consistently seem confused by is our obsession with rushing.

Running to the métro.

Eating while walking.

Scheduling weekends so tightly they resemble military operations.

Back-to-back activities. Sports. Birthday parties. Errands. Productivity layered on top of productivity.

In France, if you tell someone you had “such a busy weekend,” it is not necessarily received with admiration.

Sometimes it’s met with concern.

Why would you live like that?

The waiter who ignores you for twenty minutes after you sit down is not failing at his job.

He assumes you are there to enjoy yourself.

The table is yours. He will never bring your check unless you ask for it.

No one is trying to flip it quickly for profit.

The meal is the point.

Loud Talking

Americans often don’t realize how loud we are until we move abroad.

I remember sitting at a café terrace in Aix one afternoon when I heard a familiar sound before I even turned around.

An American table.

You could hear every detail of the conversation from halfway down the street.

The volume. The animated storytelling. The oversharing. The huge reactions.

“Oh my God STOP.”
“Literally NO WAY.”
“Wait, tell me EVERYTHING.”

Meanwhile, every French table around them sounded like a soft murmur.

The French speak more quietly in public spaces. Especially in restaurants, trains, boutiques, and cafés. Conversation is meant to stay mostly at your table, not become part of the atmosphere for everyone else.

It’s not that they are less expressive. They simply value discretion.

This applies beyond volume too.

Americans tend to reveal personal information very quickly. Relationship problems. Salary complaints. Therapy breakthroughs. Family drama. The French usually unfold more slowly. Privacy is considered elegant. Mystery is respected.

At first, this felt cold to me.

Now, I actually find it refreshing.

Not every thought needs to be announced.
Not every moment needs to become content.
Not every silence needs to be filled.

There is something calming about realizing you can exist in public without constantly broadcasting yourself.

The Part That Changed Me

At first, all of this felt inconvenient.

Slow service. Closed stores. Long lunches. Fewer smiles. No customization. Less urgency.

But over time, I started realizing something uncomfortable.

Maybe they weren’t doing life wrong.

Maybe we were just living very differently.

Maybe Americans have become so conditioned to convenience, speed, optimization, self-improvement, efficiency, and endless productivity that we no longer notice how exhausting it feels.

The French notice.

That’s why they look puzzled.

Not because you are bad or wrong.

Because to them, some of our habits look strangely stressful.

And honestly?

Now many of them look bizarre to me too.

That feeling like you just got punched in the chest the minute you see her name pop up.

Slack. Email. Text. Sometimes all at once.

You could be standing in your kitchen packing lunches, tying a tiny shoelace, or sitting down for dinner trying to be present… and there it is.

Her name.

Your stomach drops before you even open it.

The Things We Push Away

The sadness we push back every morning kissing our little ones’ soft foreheads goodbye.

Their arms still wrapped around your neck for a second longer than usual.

“Stay, Mommy.”

You laugh it off gently, peel them away, promise you’ll be back soon.

Then you turn quickly so they don’t see your eyes.

For the next eight to ten hours, you belong somewhere else. Whether you like it or not.

Back just in time, hopefully, for the witching hours before bed. When they’re overtired, you’re depleted, and everyone is running on fumes.

The Dread We Normalize

The dread that consumes you before the day even starts.

It’s in your body before your feet hit the floor.

It follows you into the shower. Into your commute. Into your first meeting.

You become acutely aware of how many days are left until the weekend.

Sometimes even how many hours.

You start doing quiet math in your head.

If I just get through today…
Then tomorrow…
Then it’s almost Friday…

The Voice We Try to Silence

These moments feel small on their own.

Annoying. Inconvenient.

We wish they would just go away so we could focus, perform, get through the day like everyone else seems to.

But underneath them, something else is happening.

The questions start creeping in.

Is this really it?
Why does this feel so hard?
Why can’t I just handle this like everyone else?

And then comes the fear.

What If Fear Isn’t the Problem?

I listened to a meditation recently that said something I haven’t been able to shake.

When fear keeps showing up, gripping your chest, tightening your breath, refusing to leave… it is not there because it was invited or pleasant.

It is there to send you a message.

It will keep coming back until you acknowledge it.

Until you listen.

It doesn’t care if it’s convenient for you.
It doesn’t care if the timing makes sense.

It just keeps tapping. Louder and louder.

The Questions That Turn Into Chains

But instead of listening, we negotiate.

Is it really that bad? Other people seem to handle it just fine.
Maybe I should just wait for the promotion. I must be close.
The money is good, so why would I give that up?
I’ve worked so hard to get here. Why would I throw it all away?
What would I even be without this job?
What would people think?

These questions sound responsible.

But slowly, they become something else.

Chains tightly wrapped, so heavy it’s hard to move.

They become the reason we stay.

So… Do We Have to Break?

I started asking myself this recently.

Do we actually have to reach a breaking point before we make a change?

Do we have to wait until something inside of us fully collapses before we finally listen to what we already know?

We hear those stories all the time.

The burnout. The breaking point. The moment everything becomes too much. And then the leap.

And eventually, the happy ending.

So is that the only way?

The People Who Don’t Wait

I don’t think so.

I think there are people who leave before the breaking point.

People who have built enough trust with themselves to recognize the signs early.

They don’t wait for the collapse.

They feel the misalignment.
They quiet the noise.
They listen.
And they act.

But if I’m honest, I wasn’t one of those people.

What It Looked Like for Me

I stayed far longer than I should have.

I told myself my boss’s behavior was normal.

The late-night messages.
The constant pressure.
The bipolar moods.
The way I never quite knew what version of her I’d get that day.

I told myself it didn’t matter how much it was draining me.

I ignored the tears in the morning.

Ignored the tight grip in my chest as I held onto the subway pole, bracing myself for the day ahead.

Ignored the way I would reread messages three times before responding, trying to get the tone exactly right so I wouldn’t set something off.

Looking back, it feels obvious.

But at the time, it wasn’t.

When You Have No Perspective

When work is your identity, you don’t see clearly.

When you’ve spent years proving yourself, climbing, achieving, you don’t question the system.

You just try to survive inside it.

Every thought feels real.
Every excuse feels valid.
Every reason to stay feels heavier than the feeling telling you to go.

And so you stay.

Holding onto the hope that things will get better.

Like a life preserver. Saving you from sucking in too much water and eventually drowning.

My Breaking Point

My story didn’t end with a brave, clear decision.

It ended with circumstances forcing my hand. Forcing my “I quit.”

COVID.
No childcare.
A startup running out of money.

And me, sitting on a Zoom call, breastfeeding my baby while trying to hand snacks to my toddler just out of frame so he would stay quiet.

Smiling. Nodding. Trying to appear composed.

Something had to give.

And it did.

What Comes After

I wish I could say it was easy after that.

It wasn’t.

There is a long recovery from burnout that no one really talks about.

There is a process of unlearning.
Of peeling back years of conditioning.
Of figuring out who you are without the thing that defined you.

And yes, eventually, there is something beautiful on the other side.

There usually is, if you’re willing to follow what’s actually in your heart.

What I See Now

My journey is far from over.
But I notice things differently now.
I pay attention sooner.

This morning on the train to Paris, I looked out the window and saw the sky almost in a battle.

Bright sunlight stretching across the countryside on the train tracks ahead.
Dark storm clouds gathering behind it, moving fast.

For a moment, they were both there. Intertwined.
Light and heavy.
Clear and uncertain.

And just off in the distance, barely visible at first, there was a faint arc of color beginning to form.

The kind you could easily miss if you weren’t really looking.

The Signs

Life is not one or the other.
It’s both.

Most of the time, the light and the storm are happening at the same time.

And maybe that’s where we get confused.

We think clarity means everything feels good.

But sometimes clarity is just noticing what doesn’t.
Noticing the tension.
The pull.
The quiet contrast between what is and what could be.

Sometimes, that contrast is where something new begins to take shape.

You Don’t Have to Wait for It to Break

If you’re in that stage right now, where the questions are loud, where the feelings are strong, where something inside you keeps whispering that this isn’t it…

You don’t need to wait for the breaking point.

You don’t need everything to fall apart to justify a change.

You already know.

You just need the courage to listen.

So let the storm clouds move the way they need to.

But don’t ignore the light trying to break through.

And don’t miss what can exist in between the two.

And don’t miss your own rainbow forming.

It’s already there. Patiently waiting for you.

Your LinkedIn profile.

That tiny word beside your last title: Present.

You stare at it longer than you’d like to admit.

Your cursor hovers over the edit button.

You almost cannot bring yourself to delete it.

Because deleting one word feels like deleting an identity.

If I remove “present,” am I no longer on the path?

That moment hit me almost three years ago.

I had walked away from the corporate career I’d spent twenty years building.

Twenty years of promotions, strategy, performance reviews, org charts, titles, annual raises, carefully timed moves.

Twenty years of arranging my life like a puzzle I believed would eventually click into place if I just kept finding the right pieces.

One more role.
One more title.
One more new industry to diversify my experience.
One more impressive company.

But I had started asking questions I could no longer unhear.

When is the puzzle ever complete?

At CEO?

At retirement?

At the moment former colleagues are impressed?

And more unsettling than that:

Who was I building it for? Myself? My family? My parents?

What was I trading off by focusing so much on this professional puzzle?

I did not know anymore.

The Rules We Follow Without Question

For most of my early career, I accepted the script as reality.

You graduate college.

You get the best job you possibly can. You go to an impressive graduate school.

You keep climbing.

You keep proving.

You keep earning.

Happiness, irrelevant.

Passion, optional.

Dread, part of adulthood.

Sunday scaries, normal.

Counting down the hours until Friday, expected.

You tell yourself everyone feels this way.

You tell yourself this is maturity.

You tell yourself gratitude means not complaining.

And if something aches in you, you call it stress and keep moving.

Because what is the alternative?

It feels too late to start over.

Too irresponsible to step away.

Too risky to disappoint people.

Too financially scary to just leave.

So we stay.

Many people stay for life.

The Breaking Point

My breaking point came when I had two children under two.

Every morning felt like a dreadful race.

Bottles packed. Diapers. Snacks. Tiny coats over squirming arms. A baby who had been up half the night. A toddler melting down because his banana squished in half.

Then me.

Throwing on an outfit, praying it looked pulled together. Makeup done with one hand while holding the baby in the other. Louis Vuitton laptop bag overflowing with half-highlighted decks I needed to finish reviewing. Breast pump bag over the other. Coffee already cold, taken like a shot.

I would kiss their little soft foreheads goodbye while warm tears formed in the corners of my eyes.

I can still see them at the window of our small house in San Francisco.

Small hands pressed to the glass.

Waving.

Watching me leave.

I would wave back and then turn quickly so my mascara would not run. Smile through the sadness.

Then inhale.

Then brace myself for the workday ahead.

At the office, I became someone else.

Sharp. Composed. High functioning.

It did not matter if I had slept three hours because the baby was teething.

It did not matter if preschool called because my son cried all morning.

It did not matter if my body was exhausted and my heart felt split in two.

My job seemed to require the first position in the hierarchy of my life.

And for a long time, I obeyed that order.

Until one day, I simply couldn’t anymore.

The Day I Quit

People sometimes imagine life-changing decisions arrive with clarity and pre-planned speeches.

Mine came as exhaustion.

I went in one day and said:

“I quit.”

Just like that.

I know it felt abrupt to them.

But for me, it had been building quietly for years.

The goodbye tears every morning.

The short shallow breathing.

The way entire Sundays were ruined with anticipation of the week ahead.

I knew if I gave myself time to think, I would talk myself out of it.

So I blurted it out before fear could intervene.

And that was it.

The Relief…At First

At first, I felt panic.

What had I done?

There was money to consider.

Childcare to unravel.

Schedules to rework.

But beneath the panic was something stronger.

Relief.

Immediate, physical relief.

As if eighty-pound weights had been lifted from my shoulders.

The pains that used to dart through my chest suddenly stopped.

The breath I’d been unconsciously holding for years finally came out in one long exhale.

I remember thinking:

Oh.

So this is what my nervous system has been trying to tell me.

The Honeymoon Phase

For a while, life felt delicious.

I filled my calendar with everything I had not had time for.

Music classes and swimming lessons with the kids.

Midday yoga.

Tennis lessons.

Long grocery store trips where I could actually read labels.

Warm coffee in real mugs.

Sunlight on weekdays I was usually too busy to notice and feel.

It felt heavenly.

And then something shifted.

The Part No One Shares

Everyone glamorizes this part and that’s what we all dream about.

But, here is the secret no one tells you when you step off the corporate path.

Even when it is the right decision, you will struggle.

You will feel lost.

You will question yourself.

You will feel strangely anxious in the space you once begged for.

Because slowing down can feel terrifying when speed has been your go-to.

You will have moments of freedom so sweet they feel like heaven.

And then, just as quickly, those moments can be followed by a gnawing ache:

What now?

What is my purpose?

What am I doing with my life?

If you are achievement-oriented, hardworking, externally validated, and used to measuring yourself by output, these questions can become relentless.

You may feel meaningless if you are not making money.

Invisible if you are not “in the game.”

Behind if others keep climbing while you stand still.

You may know intellectually that this is societal conditioning.

Yet, it can still feel like truth in your body.

How I Got It Wrong

I approached finding my next chapter the same way I approached corporate success.

Be the best you can be. Solve it like a problem. Quickly find answers.

I read almost every self-help book.

Listened to every podcast.

Bought journals with pretty pens.

Engaged in many types of therapy.

Researched “how to find your purpose.”

Tried to optimize healing.

I treated self-discovery like a project with deadlines.

I wanted answers. Pronto.

But the deepest answers do not come when you’re anxiously pursuing them.

They come when there is finally enough silence to hear them.

The Secret Sauce

Moving to France helped me understand this, but you do not need to move anywhere or do anything dramatic.

Here’s the secret:

You do need to slow the f*ck down.

Your desire will be to rush. To quickly figure out the next thing and jump in both feet first. Resist that.

Sit with yourself. In silence. In discomfort. Let the grief come up.

Cry over the years you overrode yourself. Cry over the dreams you postponed. Cry because you are exhausted. Cry because you may not know who you are without a title.

You need to let yourself get bored. Don’t try to fill the time with your phone or any other distraction. Just be bored and feel it.

You need to do get off screens. Delete LinkedIn, Instagram and any other social media app that throws you into “self-induced comparison.”

You need to take long walks alone (without your phone), sit in nature, garden, cook or do whatever feels good to allow your mind to slow down.

You need to spend time alone. I mean, really alone. Take a solo trip if you can or sit alone at a cafe or restaurant repeatedly. You need to learn to love your own company and even start to crave it.

You need to write, paint, draw, record - whatever method works for you - about what comes up. What little sparks keep resurfacing? Note those.

Do not rush this. I repeat. Do not rush this.

Do not expect anything. Patience is your best friend.

Start to develop trust. Trust in yourself that you will land in a better place. Trust in the Universe that good things are coming your way and there are higher powers working through you.

Be nice to yourself. Stop the negative self-talk. Make yourself a little mantra, as silly as it sounds, and say it yourself every morning in the mirror. Don’t stop until you actually believe it.

The Quiet Return to Yourself

For me, the sparks were always there.

Writing.

Storytelling.

Connecting deeply with women.

Honest, raw and deep conversations.

Helping others feel less alone in their questioning.

These were not new interests.

They were old truths buried under noise.

That is often what purpose is.

Not something invented.

Something remembered.

What Life Looks Like Now

I’m sharing all of this because I’ve been on this journey for the past three years and can honestly say, it’s been working.

I have found passion in writing and podcasting.

I have found meaning in helping women who are standing where I once stood, in a state of questioning and trying to figure out what’s next.

I am not going to lie and say every day feels blissful.

It doesn’t.

Monday mornings are still the worst for me.

When everyone is rushing somewhere and I am not, there are moments I still question and doubt myself.

That’s okay. That’s normal.

There are days I work harder than I did before.

But now it is effort in a direction that makes me excited to get out of bed every morning.

That difference changes everything.

If You Are Standing at the Edge

If you are miserable on the path you’re on, listen carefully.

Misery is information.

Dread is information.

Chronic chest tightness is information.

The fantasy of escape is information.

It does not always mean quit tomorrow.

But it does mean something in you is asking to be heard.

Take little steps toward the sparks.

Little steps become big steps.

Big steps become new lives.

But only if you can hear them.

And that requires something most ambitious people avoid:

Stillness. Slowing down.

Your head has had the microphone for long enough.

Let it get quiet.

Your heart has something to say.

The Truth I Wish Someone Had Told Me

I don’t have all of the answers, but I can share my experience and wisdom that’s come from it.

I can tell you that there is a kind of relief that comes when you stop betraying yourself every day.

I can tell you that when things finally begin to align, it does not always look dramatic from the outside. Sometimes it looks like sleeping better. Laughing more. Feeling lighter in your own body. Waking up with energy instead of dread.

I can tell you that there are moments when you will feel something inside you come back to life, and it is so powerful you will wonder how you lived so long without it.

I can tell you that getting off the corporate path was the best decision I ever made. For myself. For my marriage. For my family.

If you are in a season of questioning, of restlessness, of knowing something is off but not yet knowing what comes next, trust that feeling.

It may not be anxiety.

It may be the first sound of your real life calling you forward.

You will figure it out.

And one day, you may look back at this uncertain version of yourself with gratitude for having the courage to listen.

One was in her late twenties. One was somewhere in her eighties.

The younger woman’s skin was porcelain, not a wrinkle in sight. A cropped tank revealed just enough of her perfectly toned stomach. Across from her sat a tanned, almost lifeguard looking man who absentmindedly ran his hand through thick dark hair while he spoke with a thick Australian accent.

If I had been her age, my eyes might have been fixed on him.

But hers were not.

They kept drifting to our table.

To me. To my husband. To our two children covered in sunscreen and sand, arguing over whose turn it was to hold the tiny green plastic shovel.

When our eyes met, she gave me a soft smile.

And there it was.

That look.

The look of a woman imagining a future she wants very badly.

Marriage. Children. A family of her own.

I recognized it immediately because once upon a time, I wore that same expression.

At the table on my other side sat a couple in their eighties.

She had pulled her walker close to the chair. Reading glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck. Her hands trembled slightly as she tried to open the magnetic clasp of the menu. Her husband leaned over to help her, slowly and tenderly, the way people do when they have loved each other long enough to stop pretending impatience.

She looked up and caught my gaze.

We smiled at each other.

In her eyes, I saw something different.

Comfort.

Warmth.

And maybe, just maybe, a trace of longing.

That look startled me too.

Because between the wanting of the young woman and the remembering of the older one, I suddenly felt placed in the center of something I had not fully appreciated.

Maybe this time right now is the sweet spot.

Maybe these are the prime years.

The Life I Once Wanted

For so long, this was the life I hoped would happen.

A husband I loved.

Sweet children who still reach for my hand.

Family vacations where afternoons disappear into sandcastles, wet swimsuits, and pleas for one more gelato before dinner.

The kind of evening where the sun turns everything honey-colored and you pour a glass of white wine and the kids beg for some music.

So you put on Golden for the millionth time.

You dance barefoot in the hotel room before dinner.

You jump and spin while your kids giggle and ask for another twirl.

Your body still able to do it without anything aching or getting too out of breath.

Then you glance at your husband.

He still has a full head of somewhat dark hair. Skin tanned by vacation sun. Lines at the corners of his eyes that somehow make him more attractive, not less.

And you think, quietly:

This is good.

This is very good.

And Yet

To say this season is beautiful does not mean it is easy.

Some days I feel wrung out by motherhood.

Some days I am touched so much, needed so much, asked for so much that by evening I want silence more than anything.

Some days I snap at the people I love most, then feel ashamed.

Some days I miss versions of myself I thought I’d outgrown.

There are days when the future feels like fog.

Who am I becoming as my children need me less?

What work matters now?

What does the next chapter ask of me?

There are moments I feel deeply grateful and deeply unsettled at the exact same time.

For years, I thought those feelings canceled each other out.

Now I think they are simply called life.

The French Understand This Better

There is a phrase I hear often in France:

C’est comme ça.

It is like this.

Not said with defeat, but with acceptance.

Life can be beautiful and complicated.

You can adore your children and need a break from them.

You can love your marriage and still miss old versions of yourself.

You can feel lucky and lost in the same week.

You can stand in the middle of a gorgeous vacation and still worry about aging, purpose, money, your parents, your body, your future.

This does not mean something is wrong.

It means you are alive.

How “Prime” Has Been Sold to Us

The word prime usually comes packaged with images.

Youth.

Tight skin.

Peak fertility.

The best body you’ll ever have.

The years when heads turn as you walk into a room.

Society loves to hand women a narrow timeline and call it truth.

As if life rises sharply in your twenties, peaks somewhere around thirty-two, then quietly declines.

As if our greatest value is physical and temporary.

As if wisdom, self-respect, discernment, humor, depth, and inner peace are consolation prizes.

I no longer believe any of that.

When I was younger, I may have looked fresher.

But I was more anxious.

More desperate for approval.

More likely to confuse attention with self-worth.

More likely to chase lives that looked impressive but did not feel right from the inside.

I had youth.

I did not yet have myself.

What Prime Feels Like Now

Now, I feel something I rarely felt then.

I like who I am.

That sentence took decades.

I know what drains me.

I know what lights me up.

I know that external milestones do not guarantee fulfillment.

I know that some of the dreams I chased were based on too many “shoulds.”

I know how to leave a room, a role, or an expectation that does not fit.

I know how to recover faster from disappointment.

I know how to savor ordinary joy.

Coffee in a quiet kitchen.

A child leaning against me on the couch.

A walk at dusk.

A conversation that tells the truth.

I am not perfect.

I am not finished.

But I am more at home inside myself than I have ever been.

That feels like a kind of prime no one talks enough about.

When I was younger, I was admired more.

Now I am understood more.

And the second is infinitely better.

Maybe They Weren’t Looking at My Life

Later, I thought again about those two women.

The younger one.

The older one.

Maybe they were not looking at my husband or my children or my circumstances at all.

Maybe they were sensing something less visible.

Contentment.

Groundedness.

A woman who has been cracked open enough by life to stop pretending she can control it.

A woman still in motion, still becoming, but no longer at war with herself.

Maybe what they saw was not my stage of life.

Maybe they saw peace.

And maybe peace is one of the most beautiful things we can grow into.

The Part I Still Resist

I still dislike the phrase prime years for one reason.

It implies expiration.

It suggests that after a certain age, life narrows.

That joy belongs mostly to the young.

That relevance has a deadline.

That desire fades, beauty disappears, adventure closes, and wonder belongs to people with smoother skin.

I refuse to believe that.

Living in France has helped me challenge this.

I watch women in their sixties and seventies walk through town with silk scarves, lipstick, posture, and complete indifference to whether anyone approves of them.

They laugh out loud.

They sit at a bar enjoying a glass of wine.

They order dessert.

They travel.

They begin new relationships.

They carry themselves as if life still belongs to them.

Because it does.

A Different Definition

Maybe prime was never about youth.

Maybe prime is when you finally stop abandoning yourself.

Maybe it is when you know who you are, what matters, and what no longer deserves your energy.

Maybe it is when gratitude outweighs comparison.

Maybe it is when you trust yourself more than the crowd.

Maybe it is when you stop begging the future to begin and stop romanticizing the past.

Maybe it is when you can hold joy and uncertainty in the same pair of hands.

Maybe it is now.

Before It Passes

If you are in a season with young children climbing onto your lap, a healthy body carrying you through ordinary days, a partner beside you, dreams still tugging at your sleeve, questions still unanswered, laughter still easy to find...

Look up.

You may be standing in years you will one day long for.

I don’t say that to make you feel guilty.

I say it to make you more aware.

To help you notice the sticky hands reaching for yours.
The body that still runs up stairs two at a time.
The person beside you who has quietly loved you through ordinary Tuesdays and hard times alike.

These moments often feel small while we are inside them.

Later, we understand they were enormous.

And if you are beyond this chapter, your prime has not passed.

The woman with the walker reminded me of that.

There was tenderness beside her. History across the table. A face lined not by loss alone, but by years fully lived.

Prime does not disappear.

It evolves.

At twenty-eight, it may look like longing.
At forty, gratitude.
At eighty, wisdom soft enough to smile confidently at strangers.

Every season holds something the others cannot.

The mistake is thinking life peaks only once.

It does not.

If you are here now, in whatever age or chapter you occupy, there is still something beautiful asking to be lived.

Look up.

This, too, may be one of the best years of your life.

And now, I’m happy to say I’ve even befriended them.

French women.

The way their hair looks like they just woke up like that. The way their makeup is subtle, yet somehow makes them look more like themselves, not less.

The way they walk like they are on their own runway in cool jeans, sneakers, and a perfectly oversized blazer.

I still catch myself staring sometimes.

Sitting at a café in Aix-en-Provence, watching a woman in her Celine sunglasses sip a red Burgundy like she has nowhere else to be. Slowly cutting into a perfectly cooked magret de canard. Finishing with Brillat-Savarin and a petit café.

And this is lunch.

No laptop.
No rushing.
No sense that she is squeezing this in between “more important” things.

Just… fully there.

And I remember thinking, almost immediately after we moved here:

How are they doing this?

Because this version of “balance” felt completely foreign to me.

The Life I Thought Was Working

Before this, my life looked very different.

I lived in New York City and San Francisco.
I worked in fashion and beauty.
I had two young kids.

And I was trying to do all of it well.

I’ve scarfed down a salad at my desk between meetings.
I’ve woken up at 5am for Barry’s Bootcamp or Pilates just to feel like I had control over my schedule.
I’ve spent entire weekends at kids’ activities, telling myself that’s just what good mothers do.

I thought this was balance.

Or at least, I told myself it was.

Because what was the alternative?

Slowing down felt like laziness.
Not maximizing my time felt irresponsible.
Wanting space for myself felt selfish.

So I kept going.

And I got very good at it.

But something about it always felt slightly off.

The Shift That Happened Slowly

When we moved to the South of France almost three years ago, I didn’t come here looking for a different way to live.

I thought I was just changing location.

But something started happening.

At first, I noticed the differences.

Then I judged them.

Then I got frustrated by them.

And then… slowly… I started questioning myself instead.

I started having conversations. Mostly in Frenglish.
Awkward ones at first.
Then deeper ones.

And over time, real friendships.

(Not easy as a foreigner, trust me.)

And what I began to realize is that this wasn’t about style or aesthetics.

It was about an entirely different relationship to life.

They Have a Healthy Relationship With Food

There is no “diet” culture.

Yet they eat three courses at lunch.

They are well-known for their rich butter, foie gras and perfect pastries.

However, their obesity rate is significantly lower than the United States. It is very rare I see an overweight adult or child in France. This confused me, until I started really paying attention.

They don’t snack.

They stop eating before they are full.

They pause between bites.

Meals can take up to two hours. The portions are much smaller. The food is pure and real, not processed.

Food lives at the center of the culture and is meant to be enjoyed, not scarfed down just to fill the hunger void and provide energy.

There are no extremes. They don’t overindulge and then deprive themselves. They simply eat well and enjoy it everyday.

Walking matters. The French walk a lot. It’s part of the culture and they enjoy it. This helps with weight and digestion.

For children, they have goûter after school around 4pm which is when they enjoy a sweet treat like a crepe or chocolate inside a baguette. This is often in place of dessert after dinner. No sugar spike right before bedtime.

They Choose Quality Over Quantity

This goes far beyond food.

They would rather have one square of incredible chocolate than an entire bowl of mediocre ice cream.

A few beautiful, well-made pieces in their wardrobe instead of closets overflowing with fast fashion.

They would rather have a few meaningful, high quality meals outside of the home than a lot of mediocre take out meals or heaven forbid, fast food.

They even choose high quality lingerie and buy just a few matching sets. It’s inconceivable for them to not have their bra match their underwear. Every single day. So, unlike many Americans, they don’t have an underwear drawer that’s overflowing with a million different colors and brands and only a few select favorite bras that go with everything.

It sounds small, but it’s not.

It’s a mindset.

Less, but better.

They Let Go of Perfection

This one hit me hard.

Because I was trying to be everything.

The best at work.
The best mom.
The best wife.
The best friend.

They don’t try to be perfect at everything and for everyone.

They aren’t people pleasers.

They value the concept of “good enough” to achieve balance. It’s better to be a balanced mother, employee, wife than striving to be perfect at all of these.

They don’t spend hours on their hair or makeup. The messy look is acceptable and preferred. Makeup is never meant to be overdone. Don’t get me wrong, they make an effort. Looking good is very important, but not meant to take hours or be super time consuming.

When they have people over for apéro dînatoire, this is not meant to be a performance and they don’t even use the word “entertaining.” Instead, it’s meant to be simple food and drinks where conversation and connection take center stage. The host is actually present and relaxed, engaged in the conversation. They’re not trying to please everyone or put on a show to impress the guests.

Their Life Doesn’t Revolve Around Their Kids

This one was uncomfortable to admit at first.

Because I had built so much of my identity around being a mother.

In the U.S., everything felt centered around the kids. Weekends are jam packed with kids’ sports and activities.

Here, it’s different.

Playgrounds are simple, not overdone. Almost shockingly so. My kids don’t even ask to go to them. Franky, they’re not that fun. Because they aren’t meant to be a central gathering place for families.

French women believe in pursuing activities that provide enjoyment for them too. Long lunches. Wineries. Beach days. Museums. Gatherings with friends.

These may or may not be fun for the kids, but that’s okay, it’s not about catering to your children at every free moment. And they learn to be okay with that.

They learn to be bored. To adapt. To exist in a world that doesn’t revolve entirely around them. They aren’t given screens to occupy them or snacks to keep them quiet.

Parents aren’t hovering or orchestrating every second.

And slowly, I started to see something I hadn’t before.

The mother doesn’t disappear here.

Work is a Component, But Not Their Sole Identity

Work is a means to live a beautiful life. They value their work and take pride in it and are ambitious, but not at the expense of their well-being and lifestyle.

The country also makes it easier for French women to set boundaries. The government has only a 35 hour work week with at least 5 weeks of paid vacation. There is no evening work culture. In fact, in 2017, France passed a law giving employees the “right to disconnect” from emails, cell phones or any electronic shackles once they’ve logged off from their workday.

In a statement, the Ministry of Labor said:

“These measures are designed to ensure respect for rest periods and … balance between work and family and personal life,”

Yes, this makes it much easier to work to live and not the opposite way around.

However, we can all learn to set better boundaries and manage our own schedules so someone doesn’t do it for us.

They Trust Themselves. They Don’t Compare Themselves to Others.

They have a quiet confidence in themselves and don’t need to look to others for what they should value or how they should dress or what kind of car they should drive.

None of that matters as much as how they feel about themselves and their life.

If you are wealthy, it’s meant to be hidden, not flaunted. The French don’t drive fancy cars or buy mansions to show off and prove their wealth. They enjoy the finer things in life through experiences without feeling the need to flaunt them to others.

Social media is not as prevalent and pervasive which reduces the comparison culture. Most Millennial French women don’t post or spend a great deal of time on social media. They say they are private people and don’t need to be inundated with what everyone else is doing.

In short, they don’t believe in “self induced pressure.”

They Believe in Slow Living. Not Rushing and Over-scheduling.

One activity on a weekend is often enough. There is no cramming in as much as you can.

Weekends are meant to be savored for slowing down. Long walks. Big lunches. Strolls through museums. Not errands, catching up on housework or working.

They will sit on a bench and read a book. They will walk slowly to enjoy their cigarette and admire the city.

They don’t feel guilty for slowing down.

Their well-being matters and is prioritized over being busy or productive.

Friendships Are Like Fine Wine. They Get Better With Time.

The French won’t immediately befriend you or even be nice and welcoming when they first meet you. It doesn’t mean they are being rude. It means that they value allowing the time to get to know someone before opening up.

They believe it’s fake and inauthentic to immediately smile or give a woman a compliment upon first meeting her.

Like a fine wine, they let the relationship breathe and take time before going all in and indulging.

This leads to deeper, more lasting friendships. Plus, once you’re in, that friendship is as valuable as gold and is meant to be invested in and nourished continually over time.

The Truth About Balance

What I’ve learned is this:

Balance is not something you achieve and then keep forever.

It’s something you practice.

In tiny, daily choices.

In how you eat.
How you spend your time.
What you say yes to.
What you allow yourself to let go of.

French women are not perfect.

But they are anchored.

In themselves.
In their lives.
In what actually matters.

What You Can Take From This

You don’t need to move to France.

You don’t need a different country.

But you might need a different lens.

A willingness to question the way you’ve been living.

To ask yourself:

Where am I rushing that I don’t need to be?
Where am I overcomplicating things?
Where am I trying to be perfect instead of present?

Because balance isn’t about doing everything well.

It’s about deciding what actually deserves your energy.

And having the courage to let the rest fall away.

Even just a little.

It doesn’t announce itself loudly.
It sits quietly underneath your life.
A low hum. A subtle ache. A sense that something is missing, even when everything looks full from the outside.

And because it’s so hard to face directly or even properly identify it, we try to fill it.

With work.
With achievement.
With our kids.
With anything that promises to make us feel whole again.

But the truth is, this kind of void is blind.
It knows what it wants to feel, but it does not care how it gets filled.

So we reach for whatever is closest.

The Ways We Learn to Fill It

For years, I filled mine with work.

I chased validation in the form of promotions, bigger roles, more responsibility, more money. I wanted proof that I was good at something. That I mattered. That I was enough.

And it worked. Temporarily.

Each milestone gave me a brief high. A moment of relief.
But it never lasted.

Because the void was still there.

Just waiting for the next hit.

When Love Becomes a Clutch

Then, when my kids were younger, something shifted.

I started filling that space with them.

Their need for me.
Their love for me.
The way they reached for me, depended on me, wanted me.

It made me feel like a good mother.
But more than that, it made me feel worthy.

When you meet your children’s needs, you are also meeting your own need to be needed.

And that is where it gets complicated.

Because it feels like love.
And it is love.
But it is also something else.

Something quieter.
Something more fragile.

The Moment It Starts to Break

Because children grow.

They are supposed to.

They begin to need you less.
They reach for you less.
They pull away.

And when that happens, if you have built your identity around being needed, it doesn’t just feel like distance.

It feels like loss.

It can feel like rejection.
Like something is being taken from you.
Like the very thing that made you feel whole is slipping through your fingers.

And sometimes, it hurts in ways you don’t expect.

A little hand pulled away on a walk.
A hug that is forced as they run away instead of little hands gripping so tightly around your waist.
A “no” where there used to always be a “yes.”

Small moments.
But they land heavy.

Like something inside you is being scraped raw.

When We Hold On Too Tightly

If your self-worth is rooted in your children, you will try to hold on.

You will want them close.
Not just physically, but emotionally.

You will beg them not to go too far away to university.

You will guilt trip them to buy a house down the street.

To call more often.
To choose a life that keeps them within your reach.

It can look like love.

“I just want them close.”
“I don’t want to miss them.”

And those things can be true.

But underneath it, there can also be fear.

Fear of what happens when they no longer fill the space inside you.

The wings that children are supposed to be given are clipped because of the fear that they will use them to escape the nest and fly too far away.

And when that fear leads, something subtle begins to shift.

The roles reverse.
The parent becomes the one needing.
The child becomes the one holding.

And that makes it harder for them to become who they are meant to be.

Letting the Water Flow

I keep coming back to this image.

Kids are like flowing water.

When they are little, you can cup them in your hands.
They stay there. Close. Contained. Safe.

But slowly, almost without noticing, the water begins to slip through your fingers.

At first, just a little.
Then more.

Until one day, you are left holding only droplets.

And it’s tempting to tighten your grip.
To try to hold on harder.

But water was never meant to be held that way.

On the other side, it is becoming something else.
Expanding. Moving. Taking shape in ways it never could have inside your hands.

Let it flow.

Not with sadness.
But with reverence.

The Work That Actually Heals

The hardest truth I’ve had to face is this:

No external thing can fill an internal void.

Not work.
Not success.
Not even the people we love most.

Because what we are actually craving is meaning.
Purpose.
A sense of connection to ourselves.

For me, this meant turning inward.

It meant sitting with the discomfort instead of avoiding it.
Asking harder questions.
Letting the answers come slowly.

Through therapy.
Through journaling and meditation.
Through long stretches of quiet where I had no distraction to hide behind.

And eventually, something began to shift.

Returning to Yourself

What I found was not some grand, life-altering answer.

It was simpler than that.

It was remembering.

What made me feel alive before I learned to measure my worth through achievement or approval.

Writing.
Storytelling.
Creating.

The things I loved as a child.

The things that felt too impractical, too uncertain, too far removed from the life I had built.

And yet, those were the very things that started to close the gap inside me.

Not perfectly.
Not all at once.

But slowly.

Like something being mended from within.

The Void Doesn’t Disappear Overnight

Even now, it still shows up.

In small moments.

When my son prefers to hang out with his friends instead of me.
When my daughter closes her door and chooses to be alone.

There is still a flicker of something.

A brief ache.
A whisper of that old emptiness.

But it doesn’t consume me the way it used to.

Because I no longer expect those moments to fill me.

I let them be what they are.

Part of the natural unfolding.

Part of the letting go.

A Different Kind of Wholeness

If there is a void inside you, pay attention to it.

Not to fix it quickly.
Not to silence it.

But to understand it.

Ask yourself what you are reaching for.
And why.

And then gently turn inward.

Because the only thing I have found that truly fills that space is this:

A life that feels like your own.
A sense of purpose that comes from within.
A connection to the parts of you that were never meant to be outsourced.

That is the work.

And it is not easy.

But it is the only thing that has ever made me feel whole.

That is what I remember most about our last night in California.

Not the excitement. Not the logistics. Not even the goodbyes.

Just the weight of it.

Fear. Excitement. Sadness. Anger.

All of it sitting in my chest at once as we prepared to board a one-way flight to France the next morning.

Almost three years later, people still ask me the same question.

Would you do it again?

Would you make the same decision?

My answer has never changed.

Yes. Absolutely. Without a doubt.

And still, there are things I could never have understood until I lived them.

I share this for the version of me who felt completely alone in that moment. And for anyone standing at the edge of a life that feels both expansive and terrifying.

You Will Never Feel Fully at Home Again

You will waffle back and forth between loving where you live and missing your home country so much.

You will likely cry at more airports than most people have visited in a lifetime.

You will constantly question your decision over whether it was right to move so far away from what’s familiar and from your family and friends.

You will think about “moving back” and may or may not.

You will always feel slightly pulled in two directions.

When you are abroad, you will miss home.

When you go back home, you will miss your life abroad.

You will count down to visits. Then quietly count down again to leaving.

You will question your decision. More than once.

You will wonder what “home” even means anymore.

And slowly, you will learn to live in that in-between space.

Not fully here. Not fully there.

But somehow belonging to both.

You Will Become More Comfortable Being Uncomfortable

When you’re in your home country, you know how things work.

You know the cultural norms, you know how to get around, you know what to expect and can pretty much predict how most days will unfold.

Abroad, even the smallest things feel uncertain.

Buying groceries becomes confusing. There are forty types of flour and none of them say “all-purpose.”

You realize you need a coin just to use a shopping cart.

There are no stoplights anywhere, just constant roundabouts.

There is little predictability about how your day will unfold. A random street performance may block your entire route (the only one you knew how to take).

You try to speak, unsure if you will be understood. You listen, hoping you will understand.

But over time, things surprise you less and don’t aggravate you as much.

You come to expect that life is more unpredictable and don’t get as worked up when you’re uncomfortable.

You gain quiet confidence.

A realization that you can figure things out.

That you can exist in uncertainty and be okay.

The Lows are Low and the Highs are High

There will be some really hard days.

Days when you’re more frustrated and angry than you thought possible.

The language barrier. The administration of getting or renewing your Visa. The lack of sidewalk etiquette.

You will settle for some things you wouldn’t have in your home country because it’s easier than trying to return something or argue in your non-native language. Maybe pork shoulder can work the same in this recipe as pork tenderloin? You will get frustrated by little conveniences you took for granted.

Amazon Same-Day Deliveries.

Automatic ice makers.

Your Barbie-sized washer and dryer seemed charming at first, but the daily multiple loads of laundry will start to weigh on you.

But then you have days where life feels like heaven.

It’s a high you’ve never felt before. It’s the magic of experiences and the way all five of your senses can be awakened at the same time.

Biting into a warm buttery crusty pain au chocolat. Smelling lavender as you gaze up at the brightest, prettiest color blue sky you’ve ever seen in your life.

You smile to yourself as you listen to your kids sing in French in the bath.

You watch them giggle with their friends as they ride their scooters through little alleyways, seamlessly flowing their conversations between French and English.

A stranger stopping you to ask for directions because they think you look native.

Moments where you pause and think, this is my life.

And you feel it in your body.

The contrast is what makes it so powerful.

Everything You Thought Was “Normal” Will Shift

Americans can be pretty self-absorbed. We pledge allegiance to the flag of our country. We are taught to believe that America is the best country and everyone wants to live there. If you never live anywhere else, you may believe this all to be true.

But when you surround yourself with people from all over the world, your perspective completely changes you. What you assumed was “right” or “normal” suddenly seems strange.

Why do we rush so much?

Why do we always want more?

Is enough actually enough?

The questions start to come up in almost every aspect of your life.

You begin to see your home country more clearly. With more nuance. More honesty.

And you start to choose more intentionally what you carry forward.

It’s really interesting when kids start to ask questions that are very deep and insightful, things most children under 10 years old wouldn’t even think about. They ask about families from different countries and why they eat certain foods or follow certain religious traditions.

They even start to ask questions about their home country. They don’t have a blind assumption that the country they were born in is the best. They recognize differences, not as bad things, but more as things that are meant to be respected and appreciated. In short, they are learning at a young age to be more open-minded and adapt to different people and circumstances.

Not Everyone Will Understand Your Choice

When you start sharing your news about the decision to move, you may expect people to be excited and happy for you.You want them to pop a bottle of champagne and celebrate with you.

What you may often find is the opposite reaction. People will tell you you’re crazy. They will think you’re running away from something.

Often, their reactions are less than ideal or downright cruel.

I’ve learned that they are not trying to hurt us or say these things intentionally.

It is not usually about you.

It is about what your decision brings up in them.

Fear. Distance. Sadness. Maybe even their own unchosen paths.

Try not to let this sway your decision or to make it the only reason you decide to come back if you’re not ready.

This is so much easier said than done. The pressure, guilt, anger or sadness from those we love the most can hurt like hell. I know this firsthand.

But I try to remember that this is my life and I have my own family too. All we can do is make the best choice that lives in our hearts and stand inside that decision anyway.

You Will Collect a Lifetime of Moments

Life abroad is not just a place. It is a collection of moments.

The small, everyday ones.

The stories you bring home and laugh about at dinner.

The mistakes. The surprises. The things that go wrong and somehow become the best memories.

And the bigger ones too.

The ability to travel when you live in Europe is absolutely incredible. So many countries require very little travel time and offer a completely new world. Some of our best family trips were the ones where we just packed up the car with no plan, drove over the border to Italy or Spain and discovered things along the way.

The kids remember the unexpected things, like when we didn’t charge an electric rental car enough and had to get towed (they actually tow you still sitting in your car in Europe)!

The kids remember these mishaps more than the big trips where we tried to check every “must see” in a short period of time. Slow travel. Big memories. Lifetime experiences.

There Is No Perfect Place

“Even paradise gets stinky.” Natalie Goldberg said it best in her book, Writing Down the Bones.

It’s easy to feel like you’re on vacation when you first move abroad. It’s new, it’s exciting and you get to do things you’ve never done before.

But life is life no matter where you are. You bring yourself, your problems, your insecurities and your relationship challenges everywhere you go. Changing this is an inside job and it doesn’t matter if you’re living in paradise.

Over time, the culture that looked so cool, different and interesting when compared to your own will begin to show its true colors as you peel back the onion. You will begin to see the problems, the mentality and how this affects the way their society operates or how they school their children.

Over time, every place reveals its complexities.

And you begin to understand that fulfillment is not about finding the perfect place.

It is about how you choose to live wherever you are.

What I Know Now

If you are standing on the edge of this kind of decision, wondering if you should leap, I cannot give you a clear answer.

But I can tell you this.

It will stretch you.

It will challenge you.

It will change you.

And it will give you a version of your life that you could not have imagined before you lived it.

For me, it has been one of the most beautiful, disorienting, expansive experiences of my life.

And yes, even knowing all of this, I would still choose it again.

Even knowing how hard it can be.

Even knowing the homesickness, the discomfort, the questioning.

Because it has expanded my life in ways I could never have imagined.

It has changed how I see the world.

How I see myself.

How I want to live.

And that is something I wouldn’t trade.

The alarm goes off and before my feet even touch the floor, my mind is already racing.

The to-do list begins forming automatically. School drop-offs. Emails I should answer. Work I should make progress on. Groceries. Laundry. What the kids need this week.

By the time I reach the kitchen to start the coffee, my body is still waking up, but my mind is already miles ahead of the present moment.

It used to be worse.

Back when we lived in the United States, the mornings carried a layer of rushing anxiety. We were racing to get two kids ready while also getting ourselves out the door to full-time corporate jobs.

Living in France has softened that part of life. I no longer rush to a corporate office every morning. I feel grateful for that every single day.

But the racing mind never fully left.

Even now, my conditioning still whispers the same message every Monday morning.

Be productive.
Get ahead.
Accomplish things.

For the past two years, I’ve tried to interrupt that pattern.

After the kids leave for school, I come back inside and give myself fifteen minutes. I light a candle. I turn on my favorite instrumental piano music. I sit in my favorite chair with my coffee. I take three deep breaths and open my journal.

No editing. No agenda. Just writing whatever comes into my head.

This morning, as I filled the pages, something struck me.

Even after all this reflection and all the life changes we’ve made, I still fall into the same quiet traps.

The difference now is that I can finally see them.

And once you see these traps, it becomes harder to keep living inside them.

Trap #1: Believing Your Worth Is Measured by Your Productivity

This one runs deep.

Most of us recognize it in our professional lives. Did I finish everything I needed to do? Did I do it well? Did people recognize my work?

But for me, I’ve realized it spills into nearly every part of life.

Did I cook a good dinner?
Were my kids happy today?
Did I finish the laundry?
Did my daughter study enough for her spelling test?

Some days it feels like my mind is constantly measuring and evaluating.

Am I accomplishing enough?
Am I doing it well enough?

Living in France has made me question this more deeply.

French women do not seem to measure their worth this way. Their confidence feels quieter and more internal. Less dependent on external validation.

Meanwhile, I still feel the pull to be the best possible version of every role I occupy.

The best mother.
The best wife.
The best employee.
The best daughter.

But I’m slowly realizing something important.

My self-worth cannot be determined by how much I accomplish or how well I please other people.

It has to come from something steadier inside me.

And that is something I have to remind myself of often.

Trap #2: Believing You Need Permission to Slow Down

This trap is closely tied to the first.

If your worth is tied to productivity, slowing down will always feel uncomfortable.

Even taking a short break can trigger guilt.

You hear the voice immediately.

You should be doing something.

There is always something left unfinished.

Living in France has forced me to confront this mindset again and again.

Here, life is structured differently. Stores close in the middle of the day. Long lunches are normal. People linger on benches deeply engaged in conversation. Very few people are head down on their phones.

At first, this drove me crazy.

Now I see it differently.

Slowing down is not laziness. It is space.

Space to notice life as it is happening.

Space to connect with people.
Space to breathe.
Space to experience gratitude.

And it turns out we do not actually need permission for any of it.

Sometimes we simply need to stop. Even if it’s just for a few minutes a day.

Trap #3: Believing Happiness Exists Somewhere in the Future

This is the classic one.

“I’ll be happy when…”

When the job improves.
When the kids are easier.
When we move somewhere new.
When life finally settles down.

It is such a seductive belief.

But it is also a trap.

As Sophie Beatrice writes in This Is How It Feels to Be Seen:
“The goal is not to be happy. The goal is to live. Happiness is a byproduct.”

That line stopped me the first time I read it.

Happiness is not something we chase down. It appears in the small moments when we are actually present for our lives.

A walk with a friend.
A conversation that makes you laugh.
A big hug with little hands wrapped around your waist.

People sometimes ask me if moving to France made me happy.

The honest answer is no.

A place cannot do that for you.

But the experience of living here has changed how I move through my life. And that shift has made space for more happiness to appear naturally. I am much happier on a daily basis here, but it’s a byproduct of my actions to live more intentionally.

Trap #4: Believing Your Logical Mind Always Knows Best

We are trained to trust logic above all else.

Rational decisions. Strategic thinking. Practical plans.

But beneath all that noise, there is often a quieter voice.

Your intuition.

Sometimes it shows up as a whisper you try to ignore.

Sometimes it shows up as a persistent feeling that something in your life needs to change.

Our minds are very good at dismissing that voice.

They label it irrational or unrealistic.

But I’ve learned that our thoughts are not always reliable narrators.

Many of them are just habits.

When I observe my thoughts now, I try to imagine them like clouds passing through the sky.

They appear. They shift. They change shape. They move on.

Not every thought deserves to control the direction of your life.

Sometimes the deeper clarity comes from listening to the quieter voice inside of you.

Trap #5: Believing You Must Control Everything

This one took me years to understand.

Control often feels like safety.

If I plan enough.
If I prepare enough.
If I anticipate every possible outcome.

Then maybe nothing will go wrong.

But control is really just our attempt to eliminate uncertainty.

And uncertainty is part of life whether we accept it or not.

The more tightly we try to control everything, the more anxious we become when life inevitably moves in a different direction.

The only alternative I’ve found is trust.

Trust in myself.
Trust in the unfolding of life.
Trust that things often work out in ways we could never have predicted.

When my husband first suggested moving to France, my instinct was resistance.

Too much uncertainty.

Too many things I couldn’t control.

Letting go of that resistance was not easy. But it opened the door to a life experience far richer than anything I had planned.

Trap #6: Choosing Familiar Misery Over Unfamiliar Possibility

There is a phrase I think about often.

Your mind will choose a familiar hell over an unfamiliar heaven.

Our brains are wired to keep us safe, not necessarily to make us fulfilled.

So they steer us toward what is known, even if what is known is not actually making us happy.

The unknown feels risky.

But it is also where growth happens.

Every time I take a small step outside my comfort zone, something interesting happens.

The world gets bigger.

And the version of myself I thought I was slowly begins to expand. The next step feels less scary and slowly I’m no longer living in a comfort zone that wasn’t fulfilling me.

The Real Work

The strange thing about these traps is that they never disappear completely.

Even now, they still show up in my mind on an ordinary Monday morning.

The difference is that I see them now.

And seeing them creates a small but powerful space.

A moment where I can pause and ask myself a different question.

Is this thought helping me live the life I actually want?

Or is it just another story my mind has learned to repeat?

Most days, the answer becomes clear.

And then I take a breath, close my journal, and start the day again.

Just a little more aware than before.

The shop smelled like warm, salted butter and baked flour. Golden loaves lined the wooden shelves behind the counter. A few locals stood quietly waiting their turn.

When it was my moment, I stepped forward and immediately started ordering, nervously. I knew very little French.

“Une baguette, s’il vous plaît.”

The woman behind the counter looked at me for a second, then smiled gently.

“Bonjour first.”

The other customers slyly smiled. Not unkindly, but knowingly.

I had just broken one of the most basic social rules in France. You always greet someone before asking for something.

So I tried again.

“Bonjour.”

She nodded approvingly and handed me the baguette.

At the time, it felt like a small cultural correction. Almost trivial.

But over the next two years, I started to realize something.

Living in France wasn’t just teaching me new words or new customs. It was quietly reshaping the way I moved through daily life. The way I spent my time. The way I noticed the people around me.

The biggest changes did not come from dramatic moments.

They appeared in small, ordinary ones. Buying bread. Sitting at a café. Walking through the market on a Saturday morning.

Slowly, those moments began teaching me something deeper about the kind of life I actually want to live.

Here are ten lessons I didn’t expect to learn.

1. Small Polite Exchanges Matter

In France, certain social rituals are not optional.

When you enter a store, a restaurant, or even a child’s swimming lesson, you make eye contact and say bonjour.

You probably do not know anyone there. That does not matter.

The greeting is an acknowledgment. A small moment of recognition that we are sharing the same space.

When you leave, it is equally common to say bonne journée or au revoir.

Recently, I went back to the United States and noticed something I had never paid attention to before. People often walk up to a counter and start ordering immediately without even saying hello.

It suddenly felt strange to me.

I realized how much I love these small moments of acknowledgment. They take two seconds, yet they soften the entire interaction.

We are all people moving through the same world together. A simple hello reminds us of that.

2. Slowing Down Isn’t Laziness

In the United States, my default mode was rushing.

Rushing to work.
Rushing to school pickup.
Rushing through lunch at my desk.

Even moments that were supposed to be relaxing still felt productive. A quick coffee while answering emails. A green juice picked up between meetings.

Here, life moves differently.

I walk slower. I chew slower. I sit at a café without opening my laptop and let my coffee cool as I actually taste it.

I wish I could say I drink my wine slower too, but that would be a lie. It is simply too delicious here.

What I have realized is that slowing down is not about doing less.

It is about finally noticing that you are alive while you are living.

3. Patience Is a Cultural Value

In the U.S., we grow up with a powerful assumption.

The customer always comes first.

In France, this is simply not the case.

You might walk into a café and find the staff in the middle of a conversation. They will finish their conversation before serving you.

At restaurants, it is not unusual to sit for twenty minutes before a server brings a menu.

When I first arrived, this drove me crazy.

Were they ignoring me? Do I look that American?

Were they being rude?

Eventually I realized something important.

Connection and togetherness are prioritized over efficiency.

Conversation matters. Presence matters. Time with another person matters.

The lesson is subtle but powerful.

Not everything needs to happen as quickly as possible.

At first these differences felt inconvenient.

Then I started realizing they were revealing something about my own habits.

4. Stop Apologizing for Existing

Learning French has revealed something fascinating about how we use language.

There are two common ways to apologize.

Pardon is used casually, similar to “excuse me.” You might say it if you bump into someone or need to pass by.

Désolée, which means “sorry,” is reserved for more serious situations. Something that genuinely requires an apology.

In English, Americans say sorry constantly.

We apologize for asking questions.
We apologize for speaking up.
We apologize for taking up space.

Sometimes we apologize and we do not even know why.

Living here has made me realize something.

I do not want to apologize for my existence.

And when I do apologize, I want the word to still carry weight.

5. Not Every Moment Needs to Be About Consumerism

In the United States, convenience is everywhere.

Stores are open late. Some are open twenty four hours a day.

If you need something, you can get it where you want it when you want it.

I used to think this was a luxury. And honestly, sometimes I still miss it.

In France, most stores close on Sunday. Many close for two hours during lunch. Some even close on Mondays too.

At first, this frustrated me.

What do you mean I can’t use Sunday to catch up on errands?

Over time, something shifted.

Those closed hours create space.

Space for long lunches.
Space for walks.
Space for time with family and friends.

I started to realize that not every open hour of life needs to be filled with consumption.

Sometimes the pause itself is the point.

6. Pausing Can Save You

One thing I noticed early on was how often people simply stop.

They pause in the street to watch a bird pulling at a crust of bread. They stand in the square observing a tree being trimmed.

At first, I wondered why they didn’t have somewhere to be or something better to do.

Then I tried it myself.

I stood still. I watched.

And I realized those pauses are medicine.

Your mind unclenches. Your breathing slows. The constant pressure to move forward fades for a moment.

In those small pauses, you remember something easy to forget.

You are part of the world around you, not just someone racing through it.

Somewhere along the way, these weren’t just cultural observations anymore.

They were slowly becoming personal lessons.

7. Listening Is a Form of Love

Learning French has humbled me in ways I did not expect.

To understand someone, I cannot rush. I cannot plan my response while they are still talking.

I have to listen carefully.

That habit has started to spill into my English conversations too.

With my kids.
With my husband.
With my friends.

For years, I was what I would call a half listener. I was already drafting my response before the other person finished speaking.

Now I am practicing something different.

Listening not to respond, but to understand.

It is slower. It takes effort.

But it makes conversations deeper in a way I did not know I was missing.

8. Beauty Is Not Superficial

In France, beauty is woven into daily life.

Pastries are arranged like works of art. Vegetables at the market look like still life paintings. People dress thoughtfully even for small errands.

At first, I thought some of this felt unnecessary.

Why put on lipstick just to buy a baguette?

Then I began to understand something deeper.

Beauty is not about vanity.

It is about dignity. It is about honoring daily life and the rituals within it.

Small touches of beauty make ordinary moments feel meaningful.

And yes, I do feel a little better when I put on lipstick.

9. Friendship Is Essential, Not Optional

In the United States, I often treated friendship like a luxury.

Something I would prioritize after work deadlines, errands, and parenting responsibilities were finished.

The problem is that those things are never finished.

Living here gave me a rare opportunity to start fresh.

To build friendships intentionally. To spend time lingering at dinners and cafés. To open up more deeply. To laugh more often.

The payoff has been profound.

Friendship is not an extra in life.

It is part of what makes life feel full.

10. Peace of Mind Is Underrated

There is one change I did not anticipate feeling so deeply.

In the United States, when I dropped my children off at school, there was always a small knot in my chest.

A quiet thought I hated having.

What if something happens?

Here, that feeling is gone.

There are no active shooter drills. There is no underlying fear about guns at school.

When I kiss my kids goodbye in the morning, I feel calm.

That peace does not just affect me. It affects them too.

Children absorb the fears that live around them. When those fears disappear, something else becomes possible.

A lighter childhood. More carefree. How it’s meant to be.

The Unexpected Mirror

Living in France has not turned me into a completely new person.

Instead, it has acted like a mirror.

It has shown me the parts of myself that were buried under hurry, pressure, and habit.

The version of me that wants to walk slower.
The version that values long conversations and beautiful moments.
The version that believes a good life is measured in connection, not productivity.

These are not just lessons about France.

They are reminders about what kind of life is possible.

And the surprising truth is that you do not have to move across the world to start living that way.

Sometimes all it takes is slowing down long enough to notice the life that is already unfolding beautifully around you.

“I scheduled the surgery.”

My husband announced it somewhat nonchalantly as he loaded the dishwasher after dinner late on a Tuesday night.

We had just gotten our two young children to sleep, tiptoed down the stairs, and started cleaning up after a casual dinner of chicken orzo.

I almost dropped the heavy Staub pan I was drying with my favorite blue and white striped dish towel.

A pain shot through my heart like a knife. My mind started racing.

“Wait… can we talk about this?”

I wasn’t ready to close the door forever.

It felt like my ovaries were screaming inside me. Just one more baby, please.

I kept thinking about how it felt like I never got my fair shot at those early years. Instead of soaking up the snuggles and tiny firsts, I was rushing off to a job I hated while my babies cried at the window. My nanny would hold them and wave goodbye to me every morning as I walked out the door.

If I got one more chance, I would do it differently.

I would stay home more. I would be present. I would soak up every stage.

“What’s there to talk about?” he said. “You’re 40. We agreed to be done. I’m stressed enough at work and a third child makes zero sense.”

He closed the dishwasher and started walking out of the kitchen. I caught a slight eye roll and heard an exasperated sigh under his breath.

I put my head in my hands and leaned on the counter.

The tears came quietly at first, warm and slow down my cheeks.

My heart hurt.

I felt alone.

The door was closing, and it seemed there was nothing I could do about it.

The Sadness That Keeps Returning

Oh no. It’s back.

That deep, lingering sadness.

If you saw how many times I’ve written about this in my journals over the past four years, you’d be shocked. If I added up the money I’ve spent in therapy talking about this exact topic, I could have bought myself a really nice Chanel handbag. Well, not quite. But you get the point.

A third baby.

Yes, this may seem like a silly or selfish thing to be sad over when I have two beautiful, healthy children. A boy and a girl even. I know I should count my blessings.

And yet the sadness lingers.

This sense of finality hurts in a way I never expected.

Because I love being a mother more than I have ever loved anything in my life.

The Mother I Never Expected to Become

The strange thing is that I didn’t always feel this way.

For a long time, I was a career woman. I wasn’t even sure I wanted kids. I wasn’t the little girl who played with dolls pretending to be a mom.

But later in life, something shifted.

I met my husband. We got married when I was 35. Our first baby arrived when I was 36 and our second when I was 38.

I had relatively easy pregnancies and really hard births.

My first didn’t sleep through the night until he was four years old. My kids are only 23 months apart. My husband and I were juggling intense full time jobs with two children under two. We lived in San Francisco with no family nearby and no real support system.

Life felt hard. Really hard. At that point, I was ready to be done having kids too.

The Story I Carried in my Head

The vasectomy happened not long after that conversation.

I sat in the car outside the hospital while he went in for the procedure. Tears streamed down my face as I waited to drive him home. I couldn’t even bring myself to walk inside.

I kept telling myself this was the practical decision. The responsible one.

And yet it hurt like hell.

Later, when we decided to move to France, another version of life began to quietly form in my mind.

I imagined being pregnant there. Galavanting through lavender fields in flowy white linen dresses, high on happy pregnancy hormones. Eating endless pain au chocolats without guilt. A baby born in France with dual citizenship.

Sweet, cuddly days spent caring for a newborn while my older two were at school.

A different ending to the story.

But it wasn’t real.

Closing the Door

After countless conversations and arguments, I knew I had to close the door. Stop wishing for a vasectomy reversal or a chance to try for another baby.

Not because the desire disappeared, but because I cared more about my marriage and our life together than about an imaginary third child.

Now at 44, I tell myself the window has passed.

And with time I’ve begun to understand something else.

Some of the reasons I wanted a third baby had less to do with the baby and more to do with me.

Part of me wanted a do over. A chance to reclaim the time I didn’t get with my first two when they were babies because I was working full-time at an intense job.

Part of me wanted to recreate the big family experience I grew up with.

And part of me wanted the baby to fill a hole I felt inside of me and delay figuring out the next chapter of my life.

The Grief That Lingers

Most days the desire doesn’t appear anymore.

I have focused my energy on being deeply present with my two children and lingering in their childhood with them while they are still young and love being with me.

Any time one of my kids asks me to play or cuddle or listen to their stories, my answer is always “yes.”

And yet there are moments when the pain still pierces my heart.

A heaviness that sits on my chest when something triggers it.

A close friend in France recently had a baby. Holding that tiny body and smelling that unmistakable newborn scent sent an ache straight through my chest.

Another day I read a story on Substack from a woman who also wanted a third child when her husband didn’t. I assumed the story would end the same way mine did.

It didn’t.

She had the baby. She wrote about how ecstatic she was and how she couldn’t imagine life without that child.

It felt like darts hitting through my chest.

That could have been your story too.

Learning to Live With What Might Have Been

So how do I reconcile all of this?

The truth is, I don’t.

What I have come to understand is that this is grief. Not the kind that follows death, but grief all the same.

Grief for a life that never happened.

Grief for a chapter that closed before I felt ready.

The strange thing about grief is that it rarely disappears completely. It softens over time. Some days it feels distant. Other days it returns unexpectedly.

I may always grieve the child who never arrived.

And somehow that grief can exist alongside deep gratitude for the life I do have.

So I try to focus on what is real.

My loving husband and the two children who still reach for my hand.

My life is unfolding exactly how it’s meant to be, right in front of me.

And something inside me feels… off.

Not wrong. Not bad. Just different.

This is the place I was born and raised, and I am wondering why I am seeing it through new eyes. Why am I experiencing this strange mix of comfort and irritation? Warmth and judgment. Belonging and distance.

Did this place change?
Or did I?

Why do I feel both comforted and annoyed at the same time?

The questions linger quietly under everything.

When You Change Faster Than Your Surroundings

Maybe this is what happens when you live abroad long enough. When you immerse yourself in a culture that operates differently. When you learn another language. When you start to see that there is not just one right way to live, work, raise children, or build a life.

Your perspective stretches.

You stretch.

But the place you came from does not stretch with you.

And that gap creates friction.

When I return home, I am met with questions from people I love.

Isn’t it so hard to live so far away?
Aren’t you frustrated when you can’t fluently speak the language?
Don’t you miss when things are familiar and comfortable?

My answer is always the same.

Yes. And.

Yes, it is hard. And it is expansive.
Yes, it is uncomfortable. And it is alive.
Yes, I miss familiarity. And I love discovering new ways of being.

I love seeing things for the first time. I love visiting places I have never been. I love that my children speak French fluently and ask worldly questions about people from different countries. I love that they understand there is more than one version of life.

I even love feeling uncomfortable sometimes, because I know it means I am growing.

Redefining Home

But the biggest shift has not been cultural. It has been internal.

Living abroad quietly dismantled my old definition of home.

Home used to mean a physical place. Four walls. A mortgage. A neighborhood that made sense. A country where I fit in.

Now it feels different.

Home is the happy feeling inside my chest when my husband and kids are near. It is the trust that we are exactly where we are meant to be right now, even when it is hard. It is carving out familiarity in a place where everything else feels foreign.

Yes, we call our rental house in France our home. But to me, it is more like a structure holding all the growth, tension, laughter, language mishaps, and shared dinners that are shaping us.

Home is no longer geography.

Home is where I’m able to be most present, where I can love and be myself regardless of my surroundings.

It is internal alignment.

The Pull of Familiar

And yet.

When I land back in the United States, I feel a rush of comfort that surprises me every time.

Friendly smiles when you pass someone on the street. Easy small talk in line at the grocery store. The relief of understanding every social cue without thinking.

I love walking around with a large iced latte. I love diving into a giant plate of nachos with a spicy margarita at a loud Mexican restaurant. I love hanging out with my family and friends, listening to country music and slipping back into shared history.

For a moment, I ache. I wonder if we should still live here. I know how tempting it is to mistake “comfort” for better.

But after some time passes, something shifts again. The noise feels louder. The pace feels faster. The expectations feel heavier. I begin to miss the rhythm of my life abroad. The slower dinners. The quiet confidence. The space.

This back and forth used to confuse me.

Now I understand it.

Not Better. Just Different.

The temptation is to decide that one place is better. To create a hierarchy. To make one right and the other wrong.

But that has not been my experience.

There is no good and bad.

There is just different.

Life abroad is not for everyone. Many people have no desire to leave their home country, and that is more than okay. Stability can be beautiful. Roots can be nourishing.

For me, though, it took leaving to understand something I could not see before.

I had outsourced my sense of home to a location. To a zip code. To a version of success that looked good from the outside.

Living abroad forced me to find home within myself.

Finding Home Inside Yourself

Home, I have learned, is wherever I feel most aligned and connected to myself. It is wherever my husband and children and I are growing together. It is wherever my intuition feels steady, even if my surroundings are unfamiliar.

Right now, that place is France.

Not because it is perfect. Not because it is easier. But because it is stretching us in ways that feel satisfying and nourishing.

When I return to the United States, I do not feel regret. I feel contrast. I feel appreciation. I feel complexity.

And maybe that is the point.

Maybe home is not something we return to.

Maybe it is something we build inside ourselves, again and again, wherever we are brave enough to stand.

So I will keep holding both. The comfort and the discomfort. The familiarity and the expansion. The love for where I came from and the love for where I am.

And I will keep choosing the place that feels most alive.

I hope you find your home too.

Not just the address.

But the quiet place inside you that says, this is right.

Running around like crazy trying to do it all.
Striving to be perfect at too many things at once.
Feeling overworked. Taking little time for yourself.
Loving your kids deeply while secretly feeling like you are losing your mind.

Is it normal to feel exhausted all the time?
To get sick often.
To lie awake at night with a racing mind full of to-do lists and worries.
To feel stretched impossibly thin, yet perform competence so convincingly that no one notices?

Is it normal to feel like you are barely holding it all together and calling that success?

Unfortunately, yes. Much of this has become what we call “normal.”

When “Normal” Ends the Conversation

I started thinking about this word. Normal.

The French say it constantly. C’est normal.

Someone shares that life feels heavy. That work is overwhelming. That the mental load of being a woman, a mother, a partner, a professional feels exhausting. The response is a nod. A sympathetic look. C’est normal.

And just like that, the conversation ends.

No curiosity. No questioning. No invitation to imagine another way. Just acceptance.

Normal becomes the full stop. The explanation. The justification.

But I began to wonder. What if normal is simply common?

Common Is Not the Same as Right

These feelings may be common, especially in the United States. But common does not mean inevitable. It does not mean correct. It does not mean this is how life is meant to feel.

It just means a lot of people around us are living the same way.

And because we see it everywhere, we stop questioning it.

For nearly twenty years, my stressful job and “keeping up” felt normal.
My constant anxiety felt normal.
My sleepless nights felt normal.
My need to achieve, perform, prove, and appear like I had it all together felt normal.

I never stopped to ask if this life actually made me happy.
Or if it even fit who I was.

I assumed this was adulthood. I assumed this was ambition. I assumed this was the price of a good life.

Distance Changes What You Can See

Maybe it took moving five thousand miles across an ocean to see it differently.

Living in France unlocked something for me. I did not suddenly become calmer or have a new perspective overnight. But I was finally exposed to another way of living that made me question my old assumptions.

Through conversations and interviews on my coucou podcast, I kept hearing the same theme from French women.

They let go.

They let go of perfection.
They let go of doing it all.
They let go of the desire to have it all.

Instead, they live by a quieter value. Enoughness.

Not because they lack drive or intelligence or depth. But because they refuse to sacrifice their inner lives to meet an external standard.

There is quiet confidence that is apparent in all of these women. A sense of self that does not need give a f*ck what anyone else thinks about how they live their life.

A Small Example That Changed Everything

Take something as simple as having people over to your house.

In the United States, we call it entertaining. The word itself implies performance. The house must be perfect. The food must impress. The host must orchestrate the experience.

In France, the goal is different. Keep it simple. Do not overdo it. Enjoy it.

The point is not to impress. It is to connect.

The host is not meant to exhaust herself for the benefit of others. She is meant to be present. To sit. To talk. To laugh. To enjoy her own evening.

When I first experienced this, it felt so strange. Almost uncomfortable.

What a novel concept, the host actually gets to relax and be fully present?

Unnormalizing a Life

So how do we unnormalize our lives?

We slow down.
We decide what is actually worth doing and what is not.
We learn to be okay with choosing less.

We let go of the exterior show.
We stop measuring ourselves against what is common around us.
We turn inward and listen instead.

And perhaps most difficult of all, we stop caring so much about what other people think of how we live our lives.

Choosing the Uncommon Life

I have been living in France for over two years now, and from the outside, my life might look like failure.

I walked away from a picture perfect life in Marin County, California.
From a high paying, successful career.
From a community of people who looked like me, thought like me, and lived like me.

Now I live somewhere I will never be normal.
I am a foreigner.
Every day pushes me outside my comfort zone.
Friendships look different. Life feels different.

But internally, I have never felt more aligned.

Because of that, it has become easier to let go of what is common. Easier to release old metrics of success.

Not effortless. Just clearer.

The Old Pull Still Tugs

I would be lying if I said I am no longer susceptible to getting sucked back in.

A LinkedIn post from a former colleague still makes my chest tighten sometimes. Not with jealousy. Not with desire.

But my head still trying to force outdated thinking on me: look at how successful all of these people are.

I can recognize it now. That voice is not truth. It is conditioning.

It is the common path. The normalized path.

Not wrong. Not bad.

Just not what I want.

The Question Worth Asking

I am much happier living a less common life.

I don’t think we should settle for what’s common simply because it’s familiar.

This is not a call to burn everything down or move across the world. It is an invitation to ask a quieter, braver question.

Am I holding onto all of this and doing all of this because it is truly right for me? Or because it is normal?

If the answer is normal, pause.

Let something go.
Change what feels misaligned.
Release what is heavy and unnecessary.

Do not let the common life around you decide what’s right for your life.

We only get one life, so choose yours. Wisely.

I used to live like this.

There was always a calendar thumbtacked above my desk in every one of my corporate cubicles. I printed it out at the beginning of the year and taped it up like a survival chart. Green marker for the things I was looking forward to. Vacations. Long weekends. Weddings in exotic places. Even dentist appointments, because at least that meant leaving work early.

Red marker for the work days.

At the end of each day, I crossed it off. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Done. Survived. One less to endure.

It felt productive. It felt organized. It felt hopeful.

It was none of those things.

It was avoidance disguised as accomplishment.

The Illusion of Getting Through It

Crossing off days made me feel satisfied. I had lived that day. I had done what I was supposed to do. I had gotten through it.

The calendar became my roadmap to sanity. Whenever the dull ache of dissatisfaction crept in, I would glance up and count.

Three more weeks until the beach.
Four days until Saturday.
One more meeting until freedom.

I trained myself to believe that relief was always ahead of me. That joy lived somewhere else. That the present moment was simply something to tolerate on the way to something better.

My strategy became simple: live for the future.

The Golden Handcuffs

The largest calendar (symbolically) I ever hung was during my time at Kraft Foods.

They had sponsored my graduate degree from Harvard Business School. In return, I owed them two years as a corporate brand marketer on brands like Oscar Mayer Hot Dogs and Lunchables. It was a good job. A prestigious job (even though it wasn’t glamorous). The kind of job you are not supposed to complain about. Plus, I was debt free from one of the top schools. I should be incredibly grateful.

And yet.

Every morning, I reached for that red marker like it was oxygen. The number of days remaining felt like a prison sentence quietly ticking down. The golden handcuffs glinted on my wrists while I counted.

I spent two full years in my late twenties waiting for my life to begin.

I told myself I would be happy when I quit. When I found something more meaningful. When I felt aligned. When the next chapter arrived.

I was fully immersed in what I now call the “someday syndrome.” The tendency to wait for the conditions to be right until you enjoy life and find happiness.

I cannot get those years back.

And what unsettles me most is not that I disliked the job. It is that I missed my own life while I was there.

The Cultural Conditioning

There is nothing wrong with anticipation. Planning something joyful actually gives your brain a boost. We are wired to look forward to things.

The problem is when anticipation becomes your primary mode of living.

In the United States, most people get two weeks of vacation a year. Add in weekends, and that still leaves roughly 250 days annually that many of us are simply trying to “get through.”

Two hundred and fifty days treated as placeholders.

Two hundred and fifty days crossed off.

I thought this was adulthood. I thought this was maturity. I never had a job where I did not mentally or physically count down to something better.

It starts young. It’s conditioning we all have. I didn’t realize this until I saw it in my daughter.

The Moment That Stopped Me

My seven-year-old, unprompted, created a countdown chart for our upcoming vacation and for Valentine’s Day. She color coded it. She taped it above her bed. Every night she carefully crossed off another box.

At first, I thought it was cute.

Then one evening, as I tucked her in and watched her draw a firm red line through the day, something inside me tightened.

I had taught her this.

How many times had I said, “Only a few more days until the weekend,” in a bright, relieved voice? How often had I framed school days as something to push through rather than something to enjoy?

Without realizing it, I was handing her the same red marker.

I was teaching her that life is something to get through.

Breaking the Pattern

I do not want that for her.

I do not want her living five minutes ahead of herself. Or five years. I do not want her measuring her life in countdowns.

Of course not every day is magical. Work can be hard. School can be boring. Tuesdays can feel long.

But even on ordinary days, there are moments worth noticing. A laugh at lunch. A foamy, delicious cup of coffee. An interesting conversation. A peaceful walk home. A spontaneous kitchen dance party while cooking dinner with your kids.

If we only value the weekends and the vacations, we dismiss most of our lives.

So now when she asks, “How many days until vacation?” I’m trying something different.

I say, “How many small, fun moments can we find today?”

At bedtime, we share them. We count what we noticed instead of what we endured. Yesterday, she shared that one of her friends gave her a cut-out heart and invited her on a playdate. She smiled remembering that happy moment. I smiled back at her and hugged her close, softly kissing her head. Just in that exchange, we shared another great moment that day.

It is a subtle shift. But it changes everything.

Stop Crossing Off Your Life

In what ways are you crossing off days?

Where are you postponing joy until something shifts? Until you earn it. Until you escape. Until the next chapter begins.

Each day is not an obstacle to clear. It is an unfolding. It is the only place your life is actually happening.

The calendar will keep moving whether you mark it or not.

The question is not how many days are left until something better.

The question is whether you are willing to create ways to enjoy the one in front of you.

Stop dismissing your days.

Stop measuring your life by how quickly you can get through it.

This Tuesday, this meeting, this ordinary afternoon is not filler.

It is your life.

And it is asking to be lived, not crossed off. Put down the red marker. You’ll be glad you did.

Mommy, will you play dolls with me?
Mommy, will you sleep in my bed tonight?
Mommy, will you come with me to the playdate? I do not want to go alone.
Mommy, look at this. It is so cool!
Mommy, I have to tell you a story. Come here. Listen.

This is the middle years. The golden pocket of time when you are still the center of their world, but no longer drowning in the exhaustion of babies and toddlers. They are innocent and curious, funny and sincere. Old enough to talk back, young enough to still want you close. It is a season that feels both expansive and fragile, like something you want to hold gently so it does not shatter.

There are moments when I wish I could freeze time. When I wish I could stretch a single afternoon into a lifetime.

And yet, even here, I sabotage myself.

I rob these moments of their fullness by letting my mind wander forward, to the next stage of life I am not ready for. The teenage years. The slow drift away. The fear of the day when friends replace parents, when closed bedroom doors and screens take the place of Hot Wheels and baby dolls.

I hold two opposing truths at once. The joy of what is, and the grief of what is coming. The sweetness of now, paired with the ache of knowing it will not last.

I know better than to let the future ruin the present. And still, I do.

It happens in small moments. When my daughter snaps, “Go away. Leave me alone.” When my son is so absorbed in his project that he does not look up or answer me. My chest tightens and my thoughts spiral. Oh no. It’s starting. I am not ready.

And then, hours later, I catch them in the purest form of childhood. My son crouched on the floor, one knee down and one knee up, racing a Hot Wheels car along a striped rug that has become a racetrack. My daughter lining up her baby dolls, playing school, speaking French with authority, scolding them with a seriousness that makes me laugh quietly from the hallway.

They do not know I am watching. They do not know what my mind is doing to me. They are simply here. Fully absorbed. Fully alive.

Gratitude washes over me. And then, almost immediately, pain follows. How many days like this are left before these toys are ignored, then packed away for good? Before imagination gives way to insecurity? Before their stories are shared with friends instead of me?

At night, I tuck them into bed. They beg for one more story. I kiss their foreheads. I tell them I love them forever. I walk downstairs and feel an overwhelming sense of peace knowing they are sleeping safely, just a few rooms away.

For a moment, everything is still.

And then my mind intrudes again. What happens when they are teenagers? When they are out late, driving around, experimenting, making choices I cannot control? The peace dissolves into worry. The present moment disappears under the weight of imagined futures.

This is the magic we sabotage. Not because we are ungrateful, but because we love so deeply that we cannot bear the thought of loss.

I tell myself that my awareness of how fleeting this season is helps me appreciate it more. And maybe it does. Maybe this ache is part of loving fully. I wonder if I would even notice these moments if I were rushing through life, checking boxes, distracted by the endless demands of work and life.

I do not take this season for granted. I love it fiercely. I feel its beauty in my bones. I see how quickly they are changing. Sleeves that are suddenly too short. Teeth that fall out, big ones growing in. Their faces when they are deep in thought, already hinting at the adults they will become.

And then, when they are asleep, I catch a glimpse of who they used to be. Curled up, peaceful, small again. The baby years returning for a brief moment before morning comes.

Motherhood is the most intense emotional landscape I have ever known. The joy is unmatched. The ache is just as deep. Our children do not see this complexity. They might notice a tear in our eye, but they cannot understand that it comes from love so overwhelming it has nowhere else to go.

All we can do is practice being here. Again and again. Letting go of the imagined future that steals from the present. Trusting that whatever comes next will meet us when it arrives.

Because worrying will not slow time. It will not protect us from pain. It will only sour the sweetness that exists right now.

And right now, there are small hands reaching for ours. Missing teeth and bright eyes looking up at us with complete trust. Stories waiting to be told. Love being offered freely, without condition.

This is the moment.
This is the magic.
And it is still ours.

Big decision? Ask someone.
Small decision? Ask someone.
Life-altering decision? Definitely ask someone.

There is comfort in outsourcing responsibility. Other people feel calmer. More objective. Less tangled in the chaos of your own thoughts. They seem clearer. More certain. More qualified.

Or so you think.

For most of my life, I did not make decisions. I collected opinions. I called it advice, but in reality, I trusted everyone else more than I trusted myself. My head felt too loud. Too conflicted. Too messy to hold the weight of choosing.

So I handed that power away.

Decisions Disguised as My Own

When it came to my career, I relied on my dad. Should I take the job? Leave it? Go back to school? He decided.

When it came to relationships, I relied on my closest friends. Should I stay? Leave? Go on the date? Get married? They weighed in.

When it came to appearance, purchases, even small changes, I relied on my mom. Bangs or no bangs. Kitten or block heels. This apartment or that one. She knew best.

For a long time, this system worked. Or at least, it appeared to.

Until it didn’t.

Until I woke up one day and realized that the life I was living was built almost entirely on other people’s instincts, preferences, fears, and projections. I had been so busy doing what everyone else thought was right for me that I never learned how to decide for myself.

Why We Doubt Our Instincts

I think this pattern starts early. Earlier than we realize.

From the moment we are small, someone tells us what to do. Parents. Teachers. Coaches. Caregivers.

“Do this. Not that. Eat this. Wear that. Stick with it. Try harder.”

This is necessary when children are young. It is part of keeping them safe. But somewhere along the way, a shift needs to happen.

Agency needs to be handed back.

Trust needs to be built.

And that handoff is hard. For parents. For teachers. For anyone in a position of authority. Letting go means admitting that you do not know what is best for someone else’s inner world.

I see this now, painfully clearly, in my own parenting.

Letting My Children Be Themselves

My kids are in primary school, and I catch myself wanting to manage everything. Their schedules. Their decisions. Their emotions. Their outcomes.

I tell myself it is love. Protection. Experience.

But when I pause, I remember something important. I am not them.

Their nervous systems are different. Their hearts feel differently. Their minds interpret the world in their own way. When I override their instincts, even in small moments, I rob them of the chance to know themselves.

The other morning, my six-year-old asked me which dress she should wear. A sparkly rainbow fairy dress with sequined unicorns. Or a beautiful, stylish dress with ditzy print flowers and a gorgeous white doily collar.

It would have been so easy to tell her which one I preferred. (I’m sure you can guess.)

Instead, I turned to her and said, “Close your eyes. Think about what’s going to feel better today on your body and what’s going to make you happy. Choose that one.”

Of course she chose the gaudy rainbow fairy dress.

And that was exactly the right decision.

Not because of the dress. But because she listened to herself.

Learning to Listen Inward

Looking back, I wish someone had taught me to do that sooner.

I wish I had learned that decisions are not meant to be made only with your head. That the best choices often come from your gut. Your intuition. Your heart.

Quiet your mind, so your heart can speak.

This is the secret. And it is not easy.

It takes space, silence, time alone and tranquility to let your heart speak. It requires slowing down enough to feel what is true before asking what is logical.

It’s usually drowned out by the noisy roommate that lives inside your head who never shuts up and incessantly spews comments, many of them negative. Relentless. Constantly narrating, analyzing, warning, doubting. And if you let it run the show, you will always reach for someone else to decide for you.

We must learn to muzzle that roommate to allow the power inside us to emerge. That’s where the real magic happens.

Taking Your Power Back

I am still learning this. I have to remind myself to pause. To close my eyes. To breathe. To feel before I ask anyone else for their opinion.

It is tempting to outsource again. To look for reassurance. To borrow someone else’s decision and disguise it as my own.

But I am slowly reclaiming something I gave away too easily.

The right to decide.

The right to trust myself.

Because if someone else is always telling you what to do, you are not actually living your own life. You are following instructions.

No more instructions. No more roadmap. Just me consciously choosing what’s best for me. Because only I know that.

What am I doing with my life?
Am I living with purpose?
What is my purpose, anyway?
What happens when my kids grow up and no longer need me like this?
Will I still know who I am?

They surface gently at first, then all at once. They feel urgent, as if they demand answers immediately. As if not knowing is dangerous. As if clarity is the thing that will finally let me exhale.

For most of my life, I believed that. I believed the job of being an adult was to know. To plan. To control. To anticipate every possible outcome and protect myself from disappointment.

I wanted answers fast. I wanted certainty. I wanted guarantees.

And when life didn’t cooperate with my plans, I took it personally.

Why isn’t this working?
Why isn’t life going the way I thought it should?

The Fear Beneath the Questions

I can see it clearly now. So much of that thinking was fear-based and outdated. Fear disguised as ambition. Control dressed up as responsibility.

If I could just figure it all out ahead of time, maybe I wouldn’t be surprised by pain. Maybe I wouldn’t fail. Maybe I wouldn’t feel lost.

But control doesn’t quiet fear. It feeds it.

Recently, I felt this old pattern creep back in.

I had built a clear plan to launch a business with a close friend. We had momentum. The idea was strong. The product felt meaningful. It was meant to help mothers and children. It felt aligned with the version of myself I am trying to become.

Then reality caught up.

We realized the product had zero chance of actually working for children. The science didn’t support the promise. No amount of marketing magic could change that.

I’ve marketed too many products I didn’t believe in to cross that line again. I wasn’t willing to compromise my values just to keep something alive.

My younger self might have rationalized it. Plenty of products on the market are placebos. Isn’t it about perception anyway?

But I stopped myself.

I refuse to build something I don’t wholeheartedly believe in.

And still, that didn’t make it easier.

I had invested time, energy, and hope. And with the realization came the familiar rush of anxiety.

What does this mean for me?
What happens now?

Fear surged in. Disappointment followed close behind. My nervous system flipped into problem-solving mode before my heart had even caught up.

Control, once again, masquerading as the cure for uncertainty.

The Moment I Didn’t Push

This time, something was different.

I paused.

I noticed the tightening in my chest. The reflex to fix, decide, salvage, push forward at all costs. The urge to force something to work simply because I had already invested so much in it.

And instead of reacting, I listened.

A quieter voice surfaced. One I am finally learning to trust.

Not this.
Not now.

It didn’t feel dramatic. It didn’t feel like failure. It felt simple. Almost gentle.

Not now does not mean never.
It just means this isn’t it.

When I stopped fighting the moment and allowed myself to see clearly, everything shifted.

Could it have worked if I forced it? Maybe.

But forcing has never led me anywhere good.

The truth was uncomfortable, but it was also relieving. The stars were not aligned. And that didn’t mean I had failed. It meant I was being redirected.

When You Stop Fighting Your Life

This is what changes when you stop fighting your life as it unfolds.

You loosen your grip. You stop trying to predict every outcome and guard against every possible disappointment. You trust that clarity will come, not through force, but through attention.

This way of living is new for me.

I didn’t learn it until I took a massive leap and moved from the United States to France without knowing the language or fully understanding the culture.

It terrified me. And it transformed me.

Over the past two and a half years, I’ve learned how to live with more flow and less fear. I’ve discovered joy, curiosity, and purpose in places I never would have found if I had stayed rooted in control.

I don’t know what I’m doing next.
I don’t know where we will live next.
I don’t even know what continent we will be on.

And somehow, I am okay.

More than okay. I am grounded.

The Invitation Beneath It All

Maybe this is what faith really looks like. Or alignment. Or trust in the Universe. Or trust in yourself.

Maybe it is simply the willingness to stop resisting what is trying to emerge.

Life isn’t asking to be solved. It’s asking to be lived.

When we stop fighting the unfolding of our lives, we make space for something better than the plans we cling to. We trade certainty for presence. Control for curiosity. Fear for trust.

It isn’t easy. It takes practice. It requires letting go again and again.

But slowly, the weight lifts.

And life begins to meet you where you are, not where you think you should be.