At 32, I stepped on a plane to Quito with nothing more than a one-way ticket, a broken heart, and a black Osprey backpack (how sporty of me).

I was newly divorced, fresh out of a job, and ready to get the hell out of San Diego, which was home to my ex and a decade’s worth of memories that I couldn’t seem to untangle myself from.

After being in a relationship with the same person for most of my adult years, it felt strange being on my own. I hadn’t even lived alone before, let alone solo traveled to a foreign country with just my thoughts and a perfectly curated playlist to keep me company.

July 27, 2016

My dad dropped me off at LAX and snapped the first photo of my journey. Copa Air wouldn’t allow me to check in without a return ticket, so I scrambled to buy one I had no intention of using (and called my dad in a slight panic). After acquiring my “return ticket,” I boarded early in business class (I had scored a great deal using points), quickly noting that my backpacker style did not fit the aesthetic. The man seated next to me kept telling me to be careful and insisted that Ecuador was NOT safe.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I questioned myself (and my sanity). Why was I traveling to South America alone again?

Ah yes, because I could.

This trip marked the beginning of my new life and ultimately new era as a single woman.

The heartbreak

It had been a year and a half since my ex told me we had made a “mistake” getting married, but as anyone who has been through a divorce or breakup knows, the following days, weeks, and months are never straightforward.

A lot happened between hearing those words uttered from my new husband’s mouth (we had only been married for 2.5 months) and the time I stepped on that plane. I tried to save the relationship and experienced the rawest part of my heartbreak. I went to countless hours of therapy, discovered meditation and hot yoga, and cried over the phone to government employees about the unjustness and bureaucracy of a seemingly simple name change. (Can’t we just undo it, control alt delete?)

Oh, and my divorce was officially finalized somewhere along the way.

To close this chapter, a group of friends and I held a small ritual over a bonfire on the beach. With it, I burned away some of my darkest thoughts and pages from my journal.

Once the paperwork was signed, I tried to focus on myself and my happiness, even though I was far from happy. I was still on shaky ground when the idea to quit my job, sell my things, move in with my parents, save up, and then travel abroad for an indeterminate amount of time was born.

In a time of uncertainty, disappointment, shame, and chaos, it was the only thing that somehow felt right.

Before I left, I picked up the most progressive book I could find on divorce, and it was of no help. Convinced there was a better way to heal than some generic advice given by a woman decades older than me, I set off on my own Eat, Pray, Love journey and hoped I was right.

The trip

We touched down in Quito, and I tried to steady myself. This was happening.

I took a cab to a girl’s apartment that I had only recently met in a Facebook group and prayed no one would rob me on the way. (I was later part of two attempted robberies in Colombia.) My new friend quickly introduced me to the party scene, before I switched course and settled in at my first volunteer stint as a children’s summer camp counselor and then as a disaster relief volunteer with All Hands & Hearts.

For nearly one year, I moved by bus (and by boat around the Darién Gap) from Quito all the way to Mexico City, a place I eventually called home for several years. I stayed in hostels and made friends who would accompany me on my travels for days to weeks at a time. I baked bread with Hare Krishnas, I climbed volcanoes, I hitchhiked. I survived a flood, a bus hijacking, and an emergency dental visit. I started my travel blog Wandering Dawn and gave my friends the juiciest off the record updates in a special WhatsApp group.

In October, I spent what would have been my second wedding anniversary on a deserted beach in the Choco rainforest off the coast of Colombia. I spent the morning journaling, reflecting, and crying on a hammock. It felt surprisingly cleansing. There was no phone service, no running water, no wifi. I ran along the beach, climbed some rocks, and watched as new acquaintances caught fresh fish for lunch.

While most people enjoy the calm, warm waters of the Caribbean, my friend and I battled the rough waters of the Pacific and 18 hours on a cargo ship just to get to baby turtle season. It turned out to be an ideal place to contemplate how much my life had changed in just three months. I remember thinking, if I had never gotten divorced, I would have never found my way here.

This more positive mindset about the end of my relationship took hold as I continued north.

I dove into spirituality and focused on my growth, reading Gabby Bernstein’s The Universe Has Your Back and meditating like crazy. I also dove headfirst into late nights with strangers and casual encounters with men. (Ahem, also a bit crazy.) What I was Doing While You Were Breeding inspired me to take ownership of my life and do as I pleased. There was a lightness and playfulness to my mood that I hadn’t felt in years.

Slowly, I shared the story of my heartbreak. I shared it with new friends, with 20-somethings on their gap year, with nosy señoras wondering where my husband was, and with anyone who’d listen. In doing so, the shame I felt from my divorce slowly started to dissolve.

I was healing on my own time, in my own way. Through each experience, I rebuilt trust I had lost in myself in that “failed” relationship and found myself becoming more and more empowered.

I had never felt more alive.

The new purpose

About halfway through my trip, I spent a month at a language school, volunteer center, and homestay in a tiny village in Nicaragua. It was there that a new friend posed a question that changed everything.

We were discussing what things would look like once we returned to “real life”. What was next? I told her I couldn’t imagine going back to an office job or to the corporate grind. All I knew was that I wanted to help people in some way; I just wasn’t sure how.

“Have you ever considered becoming a life coach?” she asked. To which I responded, “What’s a life coach?” (You have to remember that this conversation was 10 years ago.)

From there, the seed was planted.

I did my research and saw she was onto something. Becoming a coach couldn’t have been more aligned with my values, skillset, and desired lifestyle. I continued to mull it over as I traveled for several more months and then officially completed my solo travels in Mexico City.

I set the next phase of my life in motion and made a plan to launch my coaching business and move to CDMX. Step by step, it became my reality. I took courses, became certified, and quite literally turned my pain into my purpose as I launched my coaching business for single women.

After spending a decade in jobs that were only about the bottom line (I had become a P&L expert by this point), I felt like I was finally doing something that mattered. My career in coaching gave me a newfound purpose, and I felt incredibly grateful.

I again remember thinking, had I not gotten divorced, I would have never ended up here.

Present day

Since founding my business in 2017, I’ve offered private and group coaching to women in the depths of their heartbreak. I’ve cohosted and attended luxury and adventure retreats and VIP days, created online courses, and helped single women find community.

I became even bolder with sharing my story and went viral in HuffPost after publishing “After My Divorce At 32, I Left The Country And Never Came Back.”

I’m the emotional support for women as they navigate divorce, and I’m the accountability during the most toxic of breakups.

My favorite part is seeing my clients create their own transformations after heartbreak. They may come to me feeling inspired by the life I’ve created since divorce, but they always walk away with their own stories to tell.

I’ve seen women discover newfound confidence in themselves, go on their own solo adventures, move abroad, write and publish books, get married, choose to have babies (or not), change careers, and start businesses of their own.

Something that once debilitated them (the loss of a relationship) became the turning point for something much greater.

My world wasn’t the only one that was changed.

If our life is the sum of the decisions we make, then taking that trip set me off on a trajectory towards an entirely new way of being.

10 years later, I’m still impressed by the version of me that took such a bold, audacious step. She laid the foundation for what has become a fulfilling life abroad, from a single girl in her 30’s to a single mom in her 40’s, navigating heartbreak and helping others along the way.

If you’re going through a breakup or divorce, or know a woman who is, here is how I can help:

Book your free 30-minute Detox Your Ex call with me.
Find more free resources on my Instagram.

At school, she proudly sings the morning circle song in Catalan (Bon dia, juguem!), and when asked at the end of the day, “¿A qué jugaste hoy?” (What did you play today?), she replies in Spanish, using words like “dibujar” or “pintar”. Sometimes, she’ll respond in Italian or English, not quite ready with the Spanish equivalent.

At home, she speaks English with me and chats excitedly in Italian with her papà. On the playground, she dances between English and Spanish, depending on who’s around. (My Italian isn’t nearly as strong as my Spanish, and yet I continue to mix the two.) These multilingual exchanges feel normal, but when I zoom out, I land on something that feels pretty big.

I’m raising a Third Culture Kid (TCK).
In Spain.
A country I studied abroad in more than 20 years ago.

How did I get here?

Needless to say, when my friend Kaila from Home Abroad invited me to her virtual housewarming (you’re invited too!) and asked me to answer a seemingly simple question, “Where in the world are you building a life?” I definitely had a moment.

Is the answer Spain, or is it something more nuanced?

Where are you building a life?

My daughter was born in California, but we moved to Mexico when she was just six months old. We tried living in Italy for a year or so (we have dual citizenship) and, much to my parents’ delight, have had multiple extended stays with them back in San Diego. There was a lot of trial and error, catching flights, and moving back and forth before my daughter even started preschool. We even had some stints in the South of France.

I myself had already lived in five states by the time I was five and 11 different homes by the time I was 11, so the story goes. I didn’t live outside the USA until my study abroad days (I’m not even sure that counts, but shoutout to Madrid), and then, for the first time on my own after my divorce at 32. I never know how to answer the question “Where are you from?”

But I digress.

We came to Spain on a scouting trip last summer, and I fell madly in love with Barcelona. The prospect of living here excited me to no end. My favorite neighborhood (Poblenou) is very family-friendly and reminds me of Mexico City in many ways, yet another place I have called home. Taking into account my dreams and desires for how I want to build my life and raise my daughter, it only felt natural to give Barcelona a try.

I have felt Alive in Barcelona. I have also felt Alone in Barcelona. I think it’s safe to say that I am building my very unconventional, international, and messy (yet beautiful) life here. That answer fits, for now. And I’ve got a little TCK to prove it.

Now, it’s your turn. A good housewarming party wouldn’t be complete without hearing my friends’ stories, too. Please share! I would love to know where you’re building a life, whether in your home country, abroad, or a mix of both. Don’t overthink it (like I did), or feel free to overanalyze every decision you have made up until now and do the same.

Sign the wall & share your story

Let me know when you send your virtual “postcard,” so I can take a look.

Sending love (and a very chilled tinto de verano) from Barcelona,
Asia Dawn

Ps. If you have any tips on raising a Third Culture Kid, I’m all ears.

At 8:30 am, I hear kids playing on what sounds like our porch. I don’t think they’re actually inside our cabin, but with our current setup, I wouldn’t rule it out. Luna stays fast asleep. I pick up “My Brilliant Friend” and begin to read.

At 9:30 am, my daughter says, “Let’s get up, mommy.”

Luna’s father (my ex) starts the moka pot while I get her ready for the day. There is zero resistance to her getting dressed or brushing her teeth. She’s excited to see her friends!

“Where’s Anushka?” she asks, opening the cabin door and stepping outside. “Anuuuuushka!” And then seeing her, runs off.

“Have a good day, honey!” I jokingly call out to my now surprisingly independent three-year-old, coffee still mid-brew.

This sort of thing would never happen in Barcelona, or in any major city, for that matter. Come to think of it, I’m not actually sure this would even happen in the suburbs. (Suburban parents and soccer moms, please weigh in.)

I feel completely safe and at ease here in the forest. It’s clear that Luna feels that way, too.

We are a dozen families from my daughter’s school, at an eco-camp a couple of hours south of Barcelona (by car, not by train – that journey took much longer). We’ve rented cabins which are nestled among the trees in a U-shape. Each one has a modest porch complete with a table and chairs, but we bring everything to the center, making one long table for communal meals.

Beer is offered. Food is shared. Someone strums a guitar.
Forgot the salt? Your child needs a Band-Aid? Never fear. Someone is on it.

Parents offer help and look out for each other’s children without being asked. We make them sandwiches, host impromptu storytime, and let them use our bathrooms. We leave our doors unlocked and wide open, welcoming them into our (temporary) homes without hesitation.

Meanwhile, the kids have turned the area into one large communal playspace. “Come over to MY house!” Luna calls to her friends, now jumping on the couch and shouting out the window.

The children gather, and I start to wonder: Is this a camping trip or an introduction to life on a commune?

I do a quick Google search: a commune refers to a group of people living together, sharing property, possessions, and responsibilities. It can also describe an intentional community where members share living spaces, chores, income, and beliefs.

At this very moment, one of the dads asks if he can enter the cabin. He’s brought the dishes in from breakfast and asks if he can wash them for me. I tell him not to worry, that I can do it, but he insists, and I let him clean up.

I use the opportunity to ask him some questions about communal living. Have he and his wife ever considered it? It turns out, they have. He even has a good friend who has done it. (I. Knew. It.)

The biggest piece of advice? People with the same ideals do not equate to a harmonious living situation. It’s better to start with people you already get along with, like your friends, than enter a space just because you have the same belief system.

I take note and thank him.

As I write, kids prance back and forth outside my cabin, their tiny voices conversing excitedly in castellano. Some are playing with water toys. Others, like my daughter, are attempting to communicate via walkie-talkies or are playing hide-and-seek. I’m counting the minutes until she asks to put on her bañador and get in the community pool, or to go and feed the chickens.

Being in nature suits her. It suits me too. For one thing, I woke up more inspired to write than usual. The words and ideas are flowing, and I can’t get them out of my head and onto the page fast enough. Lucky for me, other adults are watching my child while I attempt to formulate my thoughts.

I continue to reflect on the idea of communal living. Is this some kind of secret to success when raising children? Has modern society gotten it all wrong? (Probably, yes.) I believe that having a solid community, especially with family so far away, is the key to staying somewhere for the long run. I’m pretty quick to throw in the towel and move on if I fear the right community cannot be established.

I float the commune idea past some friends. One of them laughs about the cute “cult” I’m in, whereas the other can see the appeal. We are enticed by the idea of having a built-in community and agree that if we were army wives, we would definitely live on base.

I reflect.
I ponder.
I romanticize communal living.

I gather my closest friends and their children from around the world and place us together on a beautiful plot of land with multiple spacious homes. We wake and enjoy coffee on each other’s porches and wind down with laughter and wine while our kids entertain each other. Responsibilities are shared, stress is low, and meals feel like low-key dinner parties with your besties. There are no men to disturb the peace…

…I rein it in.

It’s just a fantasy. Most of my friends are content where they are and probably not looking to uproot their families and start a commune with me. Besides, they are happily married! (Some, however, are not. Maybe this is just the escape they need.)

Living with my besties is one thing. Proper commune life, however, is another thing entirely. I’m pretty sure the idea of me living on a commune is the equivalent of me participating in the tradwives’ movement: a stretch at best.

Sharing property with my ex is not a good idea, nor do I think I could actually slay a chicken, sew a new outfit, or whatever it is that tradwives do. (“Yesteryear” is on my list of books to read.)

I have to consider what will be best for my daughter…and me.

Here are the facts: I want her father in her life. I want her to have a happy mother. I want her to be exposed to different kinds of people, environments, and cultures. I’m sure she would thrive in a shared community, in nature, running around half-naked with her friends, at one with the elements.

But would I?

As relaxed and at peace as I feel surrounded by green, encircled by a dozen helpful families taking care of my child, after one month week, I’d be bored. Besides, the flies are already getting to me (the joys of living near livestock), and I have no idea where or how to connect to Wifi. As cute as it is to have other people’s kids running around all day, the ability to step away from it all would be necessary for my sanity. I need my space!

I also need social stimulation and diversity. We already know that Italian Village Life Is Not For Me. A large, international city like Barcelona feels limitless in its potential for community and connection — for friendship, dating, and even work.

As tempting as it is to live in the forest (in a commune or otherwise) and wake up to nothing more than the sound of birds, I fear I would feel isolated and grow restless. Maybe it would be different if I were there with a partner – I cannot say for sure – but I doubt it.

Well, that fantasy was short-lived.

And yet…communal living doesn’t need to happen in the middle of nowhere, and shared space doesn’t have to equate to a commune.

I’m on the hunt for my next apartment and have been weighing my options. I’ve searched for co-living spaces in Barcelona, and while there are plenty, I didn’t find any that were kid-friendly. (I have, however, heard rumors of some outside the city.) I’ve also discussed living with other single moms, but I shied away from the idea once I discovered we’d need to share one bathroom. (Someone please explain the concept of 3-bedroom 1-bathroom apartments here?)

I need to be in a space that I feel comfortable calling home, and I’m just not sure if that is in a shared environment, as much as the idea intrigues me.

My weekend in the woods sparked my creativity and offered a great sense of peace, and my daughter had the time of her life being in such a child-centric environment. That said, I probably don’t need to drastically change things (once again) and join a commune or move to the middle of nowhere.

For now, my home and heart remain in the vibrant city of Barcelona. And if I can’t find my next apartment amidst the housing crisis we’re in, well, maybe I’ll revisit starting that commune after all.

Would you join me?

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I knew moving to yet another country – my daughter’s fourth – would be emotionally and physically taxing; it comes with the territory. As someone used to being on the move and who hasn’t found the transition to motherhood to be particularly “easy” anyway, I wasn’t overly concerned with the change.

I mentally prepared myself for the challenges that would certainly lie ahead, namely, immersing myself in a non-native language (so far, so good), adjusting to a new culture (the verdict’s still out on this one), and being away from close friends and family (cue the loneliness).

It’s the loneliness that gets me every time.

In my last article, Alive in Barcelona, I hit on some of the highs of living here, and what makes the simple day-to-day moments so special.

But did I mention the lows? There are always the lows.

There’s a certain kind of loneliness inherent to moving to a foreign country. Perhaps it hits differently depending on who you do it with, but I’ve experienced it both as a single, childfree woman, and now, as a single mom relocating with her child…and ex.

April 25, 2026

It’s a sunny Saturday morning, and I spend the first half of the day cruising around the city with my daughter. We hop on the metro and start at the Museu de la Música de Barcelona, which has a free event for babies and toddlers. I eventually grow tired of all the “music” (children banging on wooden instruments) and convince my daughter to go to the park instead. We venture to multiple playgrounds, go down countless slides, and have a grand ol’ time together.

After lunch, she is off to another part of the city with her father, and I’m left alone with nothing more than my thoughts and a good book.

Most days, I wouldn’t mind. I’d actually revel in the solitude. Today, however, my thoughts aren’t so kind, and I’d rather be back in the land of toddler chaos.

I really don’t want to be alone today.

The intrusive thoughts swoop in without warning and go something like this:
What are you doing in Spain?
Why are you choosing to live so far from your family?
You don’t have a support network here.
What if something goes wrong?
You have no friends here.
This living situation with your ex is not sustainable.
Do you think you’ll actually stay?
Again, what exactly do you think you’re doing here?

Usually, I’m able to shake these thoughts and move on.
Today is not one of those days, however.

Determined to change my state, I take a mental inventory of my life in Barcelona so far as counter evidence:
I went to two birthday parties in one weekend.
I was invited to two more.
I’m making new friends.
I have single mom friends.
I joined a women’s writers’ circle.
I’ve been on a few dates.
I have an apartment with a beautiful terrace.
My daughter is in a good school and was invited to her first birthday party.
I’m well-connected with my friends and family abroad.
I FaceTime my parents and know they will visit.
I schedule phone dates with friends and hope they will visit.
I’m speaking a language I love.
I’m excited about learning another one.
I think I can see myself building a life here…

And…

What if I’m making the “wrong” decision?
What if I want to move back to California (or elsewhere) one day?
What if it becomes “too late” to leave?

Being inside my head is exhausting.

I start a voice note to a friend in San Diego, hoping it will help. (She isn’t awake yet, thanks to a nine-hour time zone difference.) I speak freely and wander, finding myself on a charming street I hadn’t visited since last year. I spy a cute seafood restaurant tucked away in the trees and take in my surroundings. My mood starts to lift, and suddenly there’s a bit more balance to the mental tug-of-war happening inside my head.

My voice note, however, is something out of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I venture back and forth between “It feels like I’m meant to be here” and “I don’t even know why I’m crying”.

I eventually delete said voice note and opt for a video message instead. I want her to see all of me. Also, the first voice note was a bit unhinged. (Not that there’s anything wrong with sending an unhinged voice note.) She hears about my coparenting and cohabitation challenges, my worries, my fears.

Once I’ve paced enough to make anyone exhausted, I hit send, wipe my eyes, and enter a coffee shop that always gives me good vibes. (With each drink arriving with a fortunate cookie, how could it not?) I order my cortado (which has quickly replaced my go-to cappuccino), sit at the communal table, and pull out my Kindle. On a day when I’m already feeling pretty low, it’s hard not to cry — again — when I sense my favorite character might actually die at the end.

Eventually, I pull myself away from the plot. I don’t quite feel like succumbing to tears in a place where everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves. (I also kind of wish I could join their conversations as I’m quite sick of the ones going on inside my head.) I decide to treat myself to some shopping instead, a luxury I rarely make time for now.

I enter a boutique I can only describe as high-end, hippie Parisian chic. After eyeing a 28 euro “kid-friendly” sunscreen, I decide I won’t be making any purchases here today, even if I want to buy half the store.

I continue to wander and stumble upon what has probably become my favorite type of shop since I’ve landed in Barcelona: a second-hand book store.

I spend over an hour in the English and Italian sections and wind up with six books for 12 euros. Most of them are for my daughter, but I throw in a couple of light, trashy beach reads for myself. No idea if I will ever actually read them, but it feels good to hold the physical weight of a book in my hands.

Heavy bag in tow, a crossroads: read on the beach or retreat to my terrace. The sanctuary of my terrace wins, and I continue to read on the metro as I make my way home, tears brimming as the end draws near for the protagonist I have come to know and love.

A thought: maybe that’s what’s happening to me, too. An ending.

Parts of my identity have been threatened since I set foot in Barcelona. This move has shaken things up, and I am faced with this stark reality every single day. As I strive to come to terms with how quickly things are changing, I desperately want someone to curl up on a couch with and talk it out over a glass of wine.

I don’t have that person here.
At least not yet.

I’ve let a couple of people in a bit – who’ve seen some tears and the occasional snort of laughter – but they haven’t yet seen all of me. This will come with time. For now, I draw on my relationships abroad and beg my friends to visit. (Shall I share more pictures of my terrace to entice you?)

I lie down on my terrace and start to read again. The brief escape feels nice.

And then…character drowned, book finished, and feeling lonelier than ever, another thought: I’ve been here before.

Even in Rome, the city of my highest highs, I experienced intense periods of loneliness. I pick up my phone and send a message to my closest friend from this chapter. (We met because I heard her speaking English in a bar on a boat, and I interjected to ask where she was from. And thus, a friendship was born.)

My Roman/American friend replies with the sweetest voice note, reassures me I will find my people, and connects me with another writer she knows in Barcelona. Messages from other friends start to roll in, which feel almost as satisfying as curling up on the couch together (but not quite, who am I kidding?) I’m grateful for my global support network and for the women who have seen me through my worst heartbreak.

Nighttime closes in. Dinner comes and goes. I’m halfway propped up in bed, writing and drinking a glass of crisp white wine from my local grocer. My daughter has taken over the couch and is watching Netflix on our new projector. My ex is in his room.

I try to separate myself and finally start to relax.

Tomorrow is a new day. I’m not sure where my mind will take me, but if it’s to another bout of loneliness and questioning my entire existence, I suppose that’s ok. I trust that it will pass, and I know that I’m not actually alone in it after all.

And in that knowingness, I sleep.

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I’ve been in the city for over three weeks now (in three homes in three different areas), and no day has looked or felt the same. All the moving around has allowed me to experience parts of the city I would not have seen otherwise, and while it has been a hectic few weeks changing apartments with six suitcases in tow, I’m feeling beyond grateful to be here.

As I begin to settle in and meet new people, I’ve been getting asked the obvious question that doesn’t have an obvious answer: “Why Barcelona?”

While my response has many layers, the biggest truth rises to the top: I feel alive here.

I’m taking a different approach to today’s essay because today feels like a different kind of day, like the beginning of something significant.

It’s Sunday, and I have the entire day to myself.
In a new city.
In a new country.
In a place I now call home.

I can’t remember the last time I had a day so wide open and with so little responsibility. What a luxury.

This leads me back to today, my very special day. I want to remember it clearly, so I’m writing it more or less in real time, and then reflecting on it like a diary entry. (I can’t promise you anything juicy…but let’s see where the day takes me.)

March 29, 2026

I dress in layers and throw a jacket in my backpack for later. Much like Mexico City, the weather can turn quickly in Barcelona. I slip on my Adidas and scan the room to decide what will go in my backpack. I settle on my laptop, journal, makeup bag, and a yoga outfit.

It’s always good to have options.

I kiss my daughter goodbye and tell her I’ll see her tonight for dinner. She gets to spend the entire day with papà, doing exactly as she pleases! (She tells me she wants to get on the train for a babyccino. The girl has good taste.) She tries to block the door on my way out, but I explain that it’s important for me to have this time to myself. I leave her crying at the door and hope she understands.

My heart hurts a little, but it’s time to go. A date at the library with my laptop awaits.

It’s sunny but chillier than yesterday, and I’m already glad I brought my jacket. I send a voice note to my bestie on my 10-minute walk to the metro, catching her up on my last few days, which comprised of taking myself out to a fabulous wine and piano event (inspiring me to inquire about piano lessons and where I can buy a second-hand piano), enrolling my daughter in school(!!), and stumbling on some local finds, like a cafe that spins vinyl while you enjoy a tallat (Catalan for cortado) and avocado toast. (You can take the girl out of California…)

I tap my monthly transport pass (feeling very local already) and hop on the metro. Just as I’m putting in my earbuds for the 13-stop journey, a young man starts playing his violin.

And I’m enchanted.

While some passengers continue to stare down at their phones, others are appreciating the music as much as I am. I give him some change and am happy to see how many tips he receives as he moves to the adjacent car to begin his next performance.

After more people watching, I get out to make a change on the metro, only to quickly realize that I can complete the rest of the journey on foot. I’d much rather commute feeling the sunshine on my back.

I pop out of the underground and begin walking at a rapid pace. I realize I’m rushing, and then ask myself, what for? I’m less than 30 minutes into my solo day and already have to remind myself that I have nowhere else to be. No one is counting on me or asking me to refill their water or feed them snacks. There are no client deadlines. I only need to worry about myself.

Imagine that.

Most of my days looked like this when I first moved to Rome as a single, child-free woman. Some days I’d walk up to 20,000 steps, simply wandering the streets and taking in the ancient ruins, only pausing to enjoy a glass of wine or a cappuccino (not in that order).

It feels good to step back into this version of myself again.

I slow my pace and impulsively step into a local coffee chain. I order a cortado (aka tallat), pick a spot by the window, and pull out my new Barcelona journal, which has a hand-pressed cover featuring different aspects of the city. (I found this gem at a local indie bookshop.)

Feeling cozy and caffeinated, I step back out into the elements and continue on my journey (and send another voice note to a friend). It’s extra windy now, and I welcome the fresh air on my face. I think I’m on enough allergy meds to make it through the flowering of the platanero, a tree that covers around 30% of the city and is the culprit of many an allergy attack.

I walk on a wide pedestrian street filled with flowers, trees, and benches, with elderly couples strolling and young families pushing strollers. There are bike lanes on either side of me and clearly marked signals and crosswalks. This city feels like a commuter’s dream. So far, everything has worked well for me, aside from the occasional metro stop without an elevator, and in those moments, I try my best not to throw a tantrum.

My next stop: Biblioteca Gabriel García Márquez. This is where I intend to spend hours writing, but once I step inside, I am overcome with awe. This might be the most unique library I’ve ever seen…

The writing can wait.

I slowly pace up and down the five stories, exploring every nook and cranny, snapping photos. The layout is well thought out, and the architecture is stunning.

And, it’s completely silent. Even the tiniest sneeze in here is startling.

People speak to the librarians in hushed tones, and there are rules displayed along the walls: silence your phone, no talking, and no food or drink. This is quite different from the library I take my daughter to in San Diego, with kids running around doing scavenger hunts, playing with blocks, and enjoying their snacks.

The design is so sleek that I cannot even find the bathroom.

I ask a librarian at the information desk, who responds to me (in Catalan), saying it’s along the white wall in the back. I shouldn’t be surprised by how often Catalan is spoken to me here – it is one of the official languages – but I always am. Fortunately, I understand it in small doses, and it’s acceptable to respond in Spanish (since that is the other official language). But the moment I do, any chance of my identifying as a local goes out the window.

Eventually, I stop playing tourist and settle on a place to write: an outdoor terrace with two small tables. Once I figure out how to open the door (I swear, nothing is straightforward here), I feel myself exhale and take it all in. I’m four stories up, surrounded by green trees and playful squawking parrots (another nod to my time in Rome). I write until my fingers become too cold to properly strike the keys and retreat inside to the warmth and silence of the library.

Once again, I’m confronted with the decision of where to write.

There are hammocks and swinging wicker egg chairs for curling up with a good book, comfy floor cushions in the children’s space, and more traditional desks with people on desktops and laptops. I wonder how many people are writers like me? I spy individual study nooks and larger tables with transparent curtains around them for a feeling of privacy. I notice what looks like private meeting rooms and wonder, are we allowed to speak in there?

I settle on a green chair that isn’t ergonomically correct for the task at hand, but in a room so aesthetically pleasing, I decide it’s worth the risk. The library closes in a couple of hours anyway.

At precisely 1:45 pm, the sound of a guitar starts playing over the speakers. It fills the entire library, which I quickly understand is our cue to exit. A man begins singing in Spanish, and I get chills. What a creative way to get people’s attention…and then kick them out.

The sound of my stomach grumbling startles me. I’m suddenly starving and realize I didn’t bring any snacks, as I normally keep them in my daughter’s bag. I didn’t get as much writing done as I had hoped, but I’m ready for a change of scenery anyway.

I’m on my phone near the bathroom, trying to figure out where to go next, when a stern librarian approaches and asks (in Catalan) if I’m waiting for someone. (At least that is what I think she said.) I look up from my phone to an angry face and say no, apologizing profusely (perdón, perdón) as I humbly make my way to the exit at 1:59 pm, bubble popped. I guess not everyone is in their own schedule-free world. Catalans run a tight ship.

I hop on another metro line and head to perhaps the most artsy neighborhood in all of Barcelona, Gràcia.

Street art, colorful buildings, live music, a party for my senses.

A tiny street seemingly entirely dedicated to Mexican food, with a tortilla shop serving fresh street tacos and housemade tortillas para llevar. Many places are closed on Sunday, which is a relief because I’m already overwhelmed by the number of options available. After going up and down several streets and browsing a robust range of international cuisine, I settle on the first restaurant that initially piqued my interest.

My senses are heightened as I step inside a highly decorated Indian restaurant.

Colorful patterns and statues of Ganesha surround me in the waiting area. The door bells gently jingle, and I hear Indian music over the speakers as I am escorted to my table, inhaling fragrant spices that take me back to my time in India 15 years ago. The menu looks too good not to order 25 things to share with someone, and it’s the first moment I wish I wasn’t alone. I order the palak paneer with a hot tea and resist the urge to order a side of garlicky, buttery naan.

I take my time eating in silence, alternating between a book and my thoughts, and then make my way to a shop I spotted earlier, filled with eight local vendors, pop-up style, each one eager to tell me the story of their craft.

I buy a pair of earrings from a Peruvian woman and a ring from an older Catalan woman, and resist the urge to support them all. Then, I walk two minutes to a second-hand English bookshop just around the corner (which was closed during the hours of 1:45-3:45 pm for lunch, of course).

I love how easy it is to access everything I need (or don’t) within a matter of minutes, without ever having to get inside a car. It’s the total opposite of the American way of life that I grew up with, and my brain and body welcome the change.

I step inside and am surrounded by books ranging from old to way older. (Handle with care!) The smell of old books takes me to another time, and I want to stay for a while. Eventually, unable to decide on anything for myself, I buy my daughter three books: one about going to school, another about feeling angry, and one about sharing.

Outside again, I open Google Maps to see if any local yoga studios are offering classes. I find one at 5:45 pm and cannot decide if I want to take it. It’s intermediate (I’m out of practice) and in Spanish (this will also be a workout for my brain).

I wander some more and hear people singing from what looks like an abandoned plot of land. Just as I’m about to step inside, a sign stops me:
No fotos.
No bar.
No tourists.

Followed by another:
Love migrants.
Hate expats.

I obviously do not enter and continue on my way. Another bubble popped moment.

At 5:35 pm, I further leave my comfort zone and enter the yoga studio I found on Google. As any yogi knows, you will never regret taking this time for yourself. An hour later, I leave in my leggings, zen and reenergized, and stroll around Gràcia some more.

The plazas in Spain are something special. I find a bench and take one in. I love watching people of all ages and cultures connect over beer, tapas, coffee, and fútbol. I dislike the amount of smoking, however, and this quickly sends me on my way.

It’s getting dark, and I decide to add in a social element as my day winds down. I meet a friend for tea (she’s English) and dessert. Adisa is the first friend I made in Barcelona back in June 2025 when we came on our scouting trip, and we immediately bonded over our daughters having the same name and being single moms abroad. I’ve already met so many incredible women since I’ve been here. That’s the beauty of a large international city. It’s easy to connect with people with common interests (and languages).

After a camomile and a cookie, I take two metros back to the completely other side of the city, back to our temporary home.

I unlock the door and am greeted with a beaming smile from my daughter. I take off my shoes, put down my bag, and head over to give her a big, warm hug.

My heart is full.

And this is exactly what Barcelona feels like.

I’ve found myself getting quite comfortable in San Diego over the last three months. I picked up old routines with friends, saw my parents every single day, and drove nearly everywhere. While I’ve evolved from Target shopping sprees and drive-thrus (and I do NOT own a Stanley Cup), I still appreciate the ease of online grocery shopping and how much simpler things seem here, simply because I’m from here.

Having already done the back-and-forth between the US and Mexico or Italy several times over the last decade, I have a pretty good grasp on what I’m getting myself into once I step on that plane again.

A world of discomfort.

Don’t misunderstand. There are plenty of things I look forward to once back in Europe, including, but not limited to, the architecture, the languages, the food, the prices, the beauty, the culture, and, mainly, the overall pace and quality of life.

I romanticize things more there.
My soul is happier, too.

I’m just trying to set more grounded expectations for this move after a rough transition to life in an Italian village last year. Italy isn’t our final stop this time, merely a pause until we secure housing at our next destination.

Location is everything, at least for me. I thrived in Mexico City and Rome. I did not thrive in a small village outside of Milan.

So, where to next?

After a year of debating and researching which European city to live in, my ex and I have finally agreed on where we want to co-parent and raise our daughter…

Barcelona!

Outside of a semester studying abroad in Madrid (and subsequently celebrating my 21st birthday in Ibiza), I’ve never actually lived in Spain. I don’t have any close friends there (yet), and I have no family nearby. It’s mostly a feeling that’s pulling me toward this lively city on the Mediterranean. I’ve done my research, of course, but I rely on my gut more than anything. (I will share more on why I’m choosing Barcelona in another post.)

As I frantically seek to repair broken luggage (fail) and buy supplements in bulk, I’ve been reflecting on what I will miss most about daily life in California. Everyone knows that things in the US are far from perfect, but I prefer to focus on gratitude and appreciation for all that I have at my fingertips whenever I visit.

Here’s my list, starting with the seemingly trivial items, that spark joy:

• Canned sparkling water, specifically La Croix Pure. (Topo Chico is a close second!) I love the bubbles and comfort of carrying a beverage with me everywhere, which is classic American behavior. I purchased a local brand of sparkling water the last time I was in Barcelona, and it tasted shockingly like seawater. I’ll have to keep searching for my new fix.

• Glass bottles of Mountain Valley Spring Water. I am clearly very particular about my water. This water is SO delicious (yet expensive). I want my water to be as clean and hydrating as possible, preferably not served in plastic. It’s a tall order, and one I’ve struggled to fine-tune abroad, unless I’m in the mountains. Then, I’ll drink it straight from the source.

  

• Online grocery orders and package deliveries. I do a mix of local farmers’ markets, grocery stores, and online ordering. It’s just one of the things that makes my life easier with a kid. I also don’t have to worry about staying home until a package finally arrives, which is precisely why I never ordered anything when I lived in Rome. I look forward to finding my local spots in my new neighborhood.

• Access to a washer and dryer. Living in Europe means saying goodbye to dryers (usually, not always) and hello to more energy-saving measures. Fortunately, I already air-dry most of my clothing, but let’s face it, having a dryer really comes in handy with a potty-training toddler.

• Driving everywhere. I love driving. It relaxes me and keeps me present. My mom has a very fun car, and there’s nothing like tightly hugging a curve and blasting my favorite music. I don’t plan on having a car in Spain, and I’ve never owned one abroad since public transport works so well. At least now I can read when I’m on the metro!

• Running on the 101. I will definitely miss my favorite out-and-back route with my bestie. I’ve been doing it for years, and it has gotten me through some very tough times. I’m considering joining a running club in Barcelona. We’ll see if I’m brave enough to join them!

• Large living spaces. Americans are spoiled when it comes to our living quarters: expansive bathrooms with bathtubs, large common spaces, walk-in closets, kitchen islands. My bedroom at my parents’ place is my sanctuary. I lived in a studio in Rome which was fine, but looking at apartment listings in Barcelona has been humbling to say the least. Still, space is a sacrifice I’m more than happy to make to live in Europe. I always adapt.

• Near-perfect weather. From what I heard, Barcelona had a veryyyyy intense rainy season, and northern Italy was covered in pollution and fog as usual, so to say I was grateful to be in San Diego this winter would be an understatement.

• The peace of suburbia. My parents’ place is strategically located on a cul-de-sac, surrounded by trees and frequented by hummingbirds. Their back patio feels like a private nature preserve. I only hope to find an apartment that is quiet enough for my sensitive nature and picturesque enough to fill my craving for the outdoors. A tree right outside our balcony would be nice.

• Speaking my native tongue, English. If you’ve never lived abroad, you’ve probably never given this a second thought. I promise, the language barrier is real. I don’t care how much I love languages; my life gets exponentially more complex when I’m living day-to-day in a different one. Barcelona has two official languages: Catalan (català) and Spanish (castellano). While I look forward to brushing up on my Spanish, I will have to learn Catalan from scratch. (They don’t use the ñ but use the ç. It’s in a league of its own!)

Spending time with friends I’ve known for decades. There is nothing like catching up with those who have known you the longest and have seen you through your worst heartbreak. I will miss them dearly. I’ve already had one heartfelt, teary goodbye, and I’m not looking forward to repeating it tonight. At least I know they’re just one Marco Polo away (and are always welcome to visit, once I find a home...)

• Living with my parents. I have friends who have confided in me that they could never live with their parents for more than a few days, a week at best. I am very fortunate to have a supportive family and a home I can always return to. My parents have been extremely helpful with my daughter, which has made hiring a babysitter a moot point. It has been beautiful watching the three of them spend so much time together! Living far from both sets of grandparents will perhaps be the biggest adjustment of all.

I know that having the choice to pack up and live in a different country is a privilege. It also means navigating an extra layer of complexity and missing people, places, and things from one country when you’re in the other. It’s all part of the territory, and something I’ve signed up for.

Still, the transition is never easy.

Now, back to packing and planning how to most easily travel solo with my daughter, her carseat, travel stroller, two backpacks, two checked suitcases, and one carry-on. Gone are the days of traveling light.

Wish me luck!

Ahhh, another day in the life of motherhood.

What started as an already rocky happy hour + playdate with a friend and her youngest (both kids skipped naps and were therefore in a mood), my getting peed on was the icing on the cake. I could do nothing but laugh it off, gently drag my child into the bathroom, and make a note to be more mindful of the things I say around my very observant daughter.

Then, back to my wine. I’m learning when to pick my battles.

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Besides, I was thankful to be sitting outside in San Diego on a Thursday afternoon, sipping a glass of rosé and spending time with people I love, pee stain on my pants aside. (I brought an extra change of clothes for her, but not for me.)

If you’re a mom reading this, you may be nodding your head because you know that some days, you truly cannot (but have to) and wish things were easier/different/fill-in-the-blank.

And if you’re not a toddler parent (or haven’t been one), let me break it down for you:

Life. Is. Crazy.

Toddlers are wild human beings with zero filter and an enormous range of emotions. I only wish I could be so bold as to declare exactly what I’m thinking and how I’m feeling at all times! Sometimes I, too, want to cry if I’m disappointed in how my food turned out. (Would you like this apple sliced or should I take a bite out of it first? Tiny slices of banana ok? Oh no, YOU wanted to peel it??)

Instead, being graced with the title of mom makes me a default role model. No pressure, right? Since I’m only human (and definitely not a saint), I occasionally lose my temper and say things out loud that are better reserved for my bestie or therapist.

Take a wild toddler, coupled with a single mom whose coparent is currently in another country, minimal childcare, and a very nomadic life to date, of course, some days are harder than others...and not just for me.

The good news? I’m in the process of making some pretty big changes so that I don’t have to “Live. Like. This!” (I really wish I had that moment recorded. Who remembers America’s Funniest Home Videos? I might actually submit if I wasn’t so ashamed to admit that my daughter had picked that up from me.)

If you read my essay on Italian village life, you’ll remember that 2025 wasn’t my favorite year, and I know I’m not alone in that. Many people struggled, and the amount of memes circulating on how this year NEEDS to be different is rooted in that deep, dark truth.

Now, we’re nearing the end of January, and while I absolutely don’t have my year (or life) figured out, I’m cautiously optimistic (even excited) about what’s ahead. Instead of dwelling on the past, I’m actively working to make this year a better one in several areas…including location. I don’t want to get caught up in New Year, New You! marketing (as someone who has a background in marketing), but I am a firm believer in the power of intention and a fresh start.

And that is what is on the horizon for all of us, if we so choose.

I can see it. I can feel it. And while I don’t know exactly what the future holds — outside of where I’m moving to next — I’m here for all of it. Life is basically one big, beautiful experiment, and we get to design it and respond to it as we please.

Since last year highlighted many ways in which I don’t want my life to play out (so many lessons!), I’ve been reflecting on how I can be more mindful and intentional going forward. This includes finding more aligned work, setting stronger boundaries, taking better care of myself, and cultivating a healthier living environment overall.

A friend shared a catchy mantra with me the other day as we were going back and forth on WhatsApp, chatting about single mom life and all that transpired in 2025. The mantra is “NTY!,” or “Not This Year!” in case you’d like to try it on.

Allowing others to rob my peace, inhaling contaminated air, and putting myself last? NTY! Cultivating healthy relationships, tapping into community, and setting more time aside for myself and my passions? That feels much better.

Becoming a parent has already made me more mindful of what I’m willing to dedicate my time and energy to. (I have friends who really want me on the dating apps, for example, and that just isn’t a priority right this second.) NTY is something I’m keeping in my back pocket as a reminder that I don’t have to settle, say yes to everything, or do it all right now.

I also can’t ignore that soon we’ll be in the Year of the Fire Horse (Feb 17), which only comes around every 60 years and is propelled by BOLD action, passion, and change. I’ve actively been shedding what is no longer working for me (we’re still in the year of the Snake), and things also seem to be falling away…whether I’m ready for them to, or not.

Rejection is protection, right?

Since Chinese Astrology feels aligned at the moment, I’ve been using it to brainstorm with ChatGPT on ways to prepare for the upcoming fiery year. One tip that really resonated with me is to Build Flexible Structure (Not Tight Control):

*Simple routines you can take anywhere
*Location-independent systems (work, childcare, creativity)
*Financial buffers

Taking it even further with this suggestion for a Water Pig sign (you can Google this for yourself based on your birth year), it suggests to Create Gentle Structure That Protects Flow:

*Anchors instead of schedules (morning ritual, weekly reset)
*Soft routines that travel well
*One non-negotiable self-care practice

I’ve been working to create more routine and rhythm for my daughter and me since we don’t have a home of our own…yet. (It’s so close I can feel it!) We have our morning and evening rituals dialed in; it’s the space in between where things get messy, and I find myself wondering how I can possibly produce even more without losing myself or these precious moments with her.

So yes, sometimes I spiral, wondering how any mother does it. But then, I rein it in and remind myself that I get to hold my daughter close and wake up next to her every single morning – whether we’re in the US or the EU – and I don’t dare take that for granted.

How are you feeling about 2026 so far?

In the midst of my panic, I thought, “I don’t want to go out for coffee!”...even though the bar is less than a five-minute walk away. Most essentials are nearby in an Italian village, including a place where you can quickly grab a cappuccino or a spritz.

After several attempts, the Nespresso machine whirled and produced the desired effect, calming me enough to return to this essay and reflect.

Why does life feel so hard for me here?

As someone used to a nomadic lifestyle and who knows that I thrive in a city, I wasn’t prepared for what 2025 had in store: calling a small Italian village ‘home’.

I thought I would be spending most of this year as a city girl thriving in Milan, but instead, I’ve spent it living in a village just outside of Italy’s fashion capital.

A change of circumstances led us to this town, about a 30-minute drive or a 45-minute train ride away. To some, this may not sound far. But for me, it has been a huge adjustment after living in places like downtown San Diego, Mexico City, and Rome. Being on the outskirts, I don’t go to Milan nearly as often as I would like, and that’s the only place I meet the few friends I have here.

There were valid reasons for coming to this village, of course, such as family support, free childcare, and low living expenses. Compromises were made.

But this situation was supposed to be temporary…and temporary has gone on much longer than expected. I’m still here, not-so-silently protesting my circumstances.

Village life is not for me.

I’ve sampled a few different lifestyles while in Italy as an expat – the digital nomad, the city girl, and the reluctant village dweller – and have found that small-town living is the most unaligned of them all.

I feel like I don’t belong here.

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The Digital Nomad: The Beginning

In the fall of 2020, I flew from where I was currently residing, Mexico City, to Palermo by way of Paris. It was the most nerve-racking flight path of my life, given the state of the world and all the confusion and misinformation around rules and restrictions.

It was also the most satisfying thing I had ever done.

I entered with my Italian passport, and everyone assumed I was meant to be there. I felt this way deep down, too.

A local Sicilian family picked me up from the airport (we originally connected in a Facebook group) and drove me to a beautiful villa in Mondello, just steps from the beach. This would become my sanctuary for six weeks while I traded my marketing skills for free housing and attempted to turn it into a cozy co-living space for digital nomads.

Curfews and restrictions popped back up and stayed in place through most of the fall and then the winter, which meant our co-living plans went on hold. Consequently, I had the entire three-bedroom home to myself(!!).

I settled into my routine: make my (Moka) coffee in the morning, take the bus to Palermo Monday through Friday for four hours of in-person Italian lessons, return home, run on the boardwalk in the afternoons, and host client sessions in the evenings. I also had big plans to finally start the book I had been putting off writing. Life was good.

When I decided to travel for Christmas, I managed to gather a group of nomadic friends to take my place and try out the space for a few weeks.

Little did I know I would never come back.

I took one suitcase with me and kept a suitcase’s worth of clothing behind when I left for “just a few weeks”, thinking I would return in January or February at the latest. This is a classic move of mine, and something I’ve done for years. It’s great for downsizing my possessions, but terrible for locating something in a pinch. (I’ve lost many articles of clothing and tinted lip balms this way. I’ve even somehow misplaced a Nespresso machine.)

Instead of returning to my life at the beach, I continued my nomadic streak, taking the train around Italy when hardly anyone else was doing so. The country wasn’t even open to Americans at the time.

I negotiated housing rates and enjoyed peaceful extended stays in Milan, Genoa, Turin, and Florence, before finally making my way down to Rome, where my suitcase and 99% of my belongings were shipped.

The City Girl: The Peak Experience

I can’t explain the love I felt (and still feel) for this city other than to say it just felt like I belonged there. Rome was my place from day one, and I never wanted to leave.

I explored different neighborhoods, each one with its own flavor. After a stint in Prati with roommates, I settled down in Trastevere in a studio apartment, alone, with a large terrace and a beautiful tree that was filled with green squawking parrots each day.

I quickly fell into my stride, building community (so easy to do), working at a yoga studio (English speaking), walking to my local market each day for fresh produce, running along the river, writing from cafes over a cappuccino, and taking virtual Italian lessons (even though I could have found in-person lessons there as well).

I loved how easy it was to find my footing, make connections, and ask for help when I needed it. Everything seemed possible in the city, even amidst the chaos.

I also loved how easy it was to disappear and find solitude. To wander the streets like a tourist, taking artsy sunset photos and shameless selfies. To cry in public without worrying about it getting back to someone. To get lost in a sea of thousands of people and in the fantasy of running into my future husband on the streets. (Don’t judge me.)

It felt like a dream, creating this life for myself, and Rome is always at the back of my mind as a backup plan if I ever want to return.

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The Villager: Present Day

After experiencing life in Rome as my baseline, and then returning to Italy a couple of years later with my daughter and attempting to adjust to small-town life, finding my flow has felt nearly impossible.

The difference between living in an overcrowded city and a village of 5,000-6,000 people is stark. (I’ve also stayed in a mountain village with fewer than 500 people, and my daughter has probably met every single little kid that lives there.)

Put me in the middle of a crowded city and watch me thrive. Put me in the middle of a quaint village with a local bar, local church, local playground, and local hair salon (that I regret trying), and watch me turn into a total introvert.

Funny, right?

There are plenty of benefits to living in a smaller community, of course. The lifestyle appears enticing on Instagram with beautiful women tending to their chickens, and in movies like Under the Tuscan Sun, where renovating a home in the small town of Cortona (population ~20,000) seems like a good idea for a divorced, struggling American writer (ahem), and everyone knows everyone’s business. (I have a friend in a (different) Italian village who has chickens, so this description is pretty accurate.)

Perhaps I’ve had a challenging time focusing on the positives this year because I don’t have anyone special here to share these wholesome experiences with, close friends included. (Or maybe I’m not someone who is meant to raise chickens.)

I feel like an outsider.

In a village filled with plenty of other immigrants, it feels silly to declare myself as such. I’m not the only person who wasn’t born and raised here, but for a big part of the village, that is exactly what it feels like.

People were born in this village.
Raised in this village.
Have extended families in this village.
Bury loved ones in the cemetery in this village.
Grow old in this village.
Pass away in this village.

The circle of life happens here every single day, and I am on the outside, looking in, even though I am right here in it.

I will never be one of the local locals, speaking in dialect at the bar and chatting with wild hand gestures on the narrow streets. This fact (and the language barrier) has kept me from living in my fullest expression. I feel like I’m living in a life that isn’t really mine.

It hasn’t made me want to build community, and community is one of my lifelines. I’ve mainly been relying on virtual connections.

It is also what has fueled a cycle of nonstop traveling this year, me trying to escape whenever I can.

To be clear, no one has been rude or unkind. When Luna and I go out for walks, everyone is obsessed with her. Whenever we go to the bar for coffee together, she receives nothing short of affection and smiles.

And yet, I feel a constant pull to be elsewhere.

Maybe I’m afraid of being seen, of being noticed. I moved around a lot and grew up trying to fit in and make new friends. I quite enjoyed taking up space (ask my mother or my kindergarten teacher), and now it depends on my mood. Sometimes I just want to blend in. Other times, I just want to speak English with another native English speaker, which is the exact equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack.

Here’s the kicker, and perhaps the biggest truth of them all: I am navigating a lot. I’m not only trying to figure out where I belong, I’m also deciding where I want to raise my daughter, and how to manage a complex coparenting situation. I’m basically trying to upend my entire life, and it is exhausting and overwhelming at times.

I’m sure some of the discomfort I feel here isn’t just from the village itself, but from my overall circumstances, which I am actively working to change. (Thank God for good friends, the Marco Polo app, and virtual therapy.)

Choosing to live abroad is exactly that: a choice.
Living outside of my comfort zone is also a choice.

It’s more than the singular act of going skydiving (been there) or the terror of going on a blind date that your Mexican naturopath sets you up on with her narcissistic brother (done that).

Living abroad will always require a certain level of discomfort, and I think that’s part of what I love/hate about it.

It’s why I chose to study Spanish in college and Italian in my 30s.
It’s why I flew to Quito alone on a one-way ticket.
It’s why I eventually felt suffocated in my picture-perfect life in California by the beach and chose to leave everything I knew and understood behind.

The level of discomfort I have felt time and time again is how I know I will be ok when I eventually take the leap, from living within the constructs of this tiny village, to a life that feels like mine.

Other essays you might enjoy:

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I was supposed to cry about leaving my daughter for the first time, right?

Airports are a decent place to cry, as far as crying in public goes. You’re surrounded by people you’ll never see again, and in a constant flow of comings and goings, there are a million reasons why one might do so. (The airport scenes in Love Actually depict this well.)

The only thing that was somewhat awkward in this particular moment was the eye contact I made with a man whom I had spoken with during the check-in process. Seeing me sitting there crying alone, he gave me a sad smile before joining his wife in line and handing over their boarding passes. (Note to self: Do not make small talk with strangers at the airport when you want to have an anonymous cry.)

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I brushed away the tears before standing up and finally getting on the plane.

I was about to take my first trip without my daughter. Ever. It would be our first night apart in over three years.

Before I became a mother, solo travel was my forte. I traveled alone throughout Latin America, having my own mini Eat, Pray, Love experience after my divorce. I moved to Mexico City alone. I moved to Italy alone, too. I fell in love with traveling as a single woman so much that I even created a course on it. Using travel to heal heartbreak and as a form of empowerment was a big part of my brand for years. (I also started a mini ebook on the topic, but never got it out into the world…perhaps I’ll pick that up again.)

My solo travels went on hiatus, however, when I became a mother. I was a new mom, doing new-mom things, and it made sense in my new-mom brain (and body) to make that sacrifice. Motherhood literally changes your cellular makeup1. Who was I to fight it?

One year passed. Then two. Then three.

Three years passed, and I still hadn’t gotten on a train or plane solo.

I still traveled, of course. I could never give that up. My daughter took her first flight with me at three months, then again at five months, and it continued like this, her having traveled to seven countries and taking dozens of flights, trains, Ubers, taxis, and boats. I loved seeing the world through her eyes.

For more than 1,100 nights, we slept in the same bed, no matter the country. I never left her side. There were a handful of times where I stayed out past her bedtime, but I always came home, and she awoke to find me there.

Since we’ve never had much of a stable home base (for a variety of reasons), I’ve been mindful that I have been her home, her consistency, her safe space. I didn’t want to take that away from her, even if just for a brief moment.

For more than three years, it felt like too much to leave, even if only for a night.

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I imagine all parents remember the first time they left their child for an overnight trip, whether it was by choice (a much-needed vacation) or for work. I didn’t understand the weight of this decision until I became a parent myself.

I watched from afar as other mothers went on retreats and booked themselves into hotel rooms to work on their novels. Comparison isn’t always helpful, but in these instances, it was. Seeing these women do something for themselves – and for their creative expression – was inspiring. I hoped to take a trip alone one day, too…when it felt right.

And then one day, it finally did.

My trip to Paris (with Luna in tow) is what ultimately pushed me over the edge. The energy I felt there shifted something within me. I made a wish on my birthday (which I obviously cannot tell you), and things were rapidly set into motion.

I felt brave. I felt strong. I felt ready.

I spoke to a friend with whom I had been trying to coordinate a trip for months. This time, plans were made…and I booked the flight.

It took months of conversations, tears, therapy, introspection, preparation, and questioning myself again and again (and again) before I got on that plane. And that was exactly what I needed to make the trip happen.

After a short flight seated next to a chatty Italian who kept insisting that I include something about him in my book (I’ll admit, he made me laugh more than once on that flight), and a nearly lost item of luggage later (KLM forced me to check my carry-on which was not part of the plan), it was smooth sailing.

I met up with my dear friend and amazing hostess at her Rotterdam high-rise and effortlessly slipped into friend/solo traveler/woman-without-responsibilities mode. It felt SO GOOD – and natural – to be reunited with these parts of myself again. It was as if no time had passed.

What may have appeared as a carefree getaway to the Netherlands was actually a bold act of courage and reclamation. Parts of me that hadn’t seen daylight in years were finally coming out to play.

I spent the next day and a half with no one to take care of but myself, with no set plans other than to enjoy the time I had. (If you’re curious, yoga, multiple hot chocolates, a lot of non-Italian food, Stroopwafles, wine, cute pics, and a day trip to Amsterdam plus the Soho House were involved.)

Arriving back in Milan 48 hours later (with an iconic Miffy in hand) and being greeted by my daughter was the best feeling EVER. There were happy tears (cue Love Actually moment), and my heart just about burst from the excitement of being reunited. Stepping back into this part of myself — the mom part — was effortless.

My daughter was ok. I was ok.

It was safe to take the trip. It will be safe to take more.

My first solo trip as a mother gave me the confidence and awakening I needed to start reclaiming parts of myself that have been waiting in the wings. I’m making a conscious effort to explore them further because it finally feels safe in my mind, body, and soul to do so.

Little by little, I’m finding my way back to myself. Bit by bit, I’m laying the foundation for a future that’s fulfilling for both my daughter and me.

Ps. The audio version of this post, along with my behind-the-scenes commentary, can be found here.

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Below, you’ll find an 11-minute audio where I read the essay and share some additional reflections and behind-the-scenes moments. You will also find some prompts to help you connect with your younger self, too.

Grab a cup of coffee, hit play, and let’s dive in, together.

I can’t wait to hear what you think.💛

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If you’re wondering how I got there, well, some things are better left unsaid. I will say that it was an exhausting nine months before I found myself on that doorstop, finally making sense of it all.

Divorce papers would be filed after that.

If I could go back in time to just after that moment, here is what I would tell my younger, heartbroken self.

If you’re in the midst of transition or heartbreak, I hope you’ll read with yourself in mind. Perhaps it will inspire you to move forward with an open heart and trust yourself just a little bit more.

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…

Dearest Asia,

I know this isn’t the birthday you had imagined. What started as a relaxing spa day with friends quickly turned into the plot of a reality TV show. More hard days are to come, I won’t lie and say that everything was resolved quickly. You’ll have another couple of blowouts with your ex, but I promise that once he is out of the picture for good, the dust will finally begin to settle, and your life will improve greatly.

Soon, you will find the ability to rest and rebuild.

You might not see it now, but you spent the last several years living for someone else. The energy you put into keeping that relationship alive, even when it was going downhill rapidly, took a quiet toll on you. Once you stop investing your energy in what other people are doing and worrying about how your life might appear on the outside, you will have space to focus on what’s most important – creating a life that actually feels good on the inside.

Imagine that.

It takes a lot of courage to start over, but going back in time and watching how you do it is inspiring. Remember when you searched and searched for self-help books for women going through divorce and how meager the selection was? I love how you quickly threw that sad, outdated advice out the window and decided to heal and rebuild in a way that was uniquely yours.

It’s hard to imagine, but the next few years will be some of the best of your life, and you will continue to look back on them fondly. You can’t believe what country you’ll be spending your birthday in next year!

Right now, just focus on putting one foot in front of the other and lean into your community. You’re about to meet some incredible people, including new housemates in Little Italy, San Diego, who help you remember what it’s like to live in a loving home. This move is only a preview of the bigger ones you will make down the road.

You are about to embark on the trip of a lifetime. Not only will it be filled with solo travel and adventure, but it will be incredibly healing. You will spend what would have been your wedding anniversary offline, in a “village” not reachable by car, only by boat or seaplane. (You opt for the cargo ship…you’ll want to change your mind on that one for the return.) You will cry plenty, but you will also laugh much more.

You will start to share your story with strangers, many of whom will quickly become friends because things happen much faster in the backpacking world. (Yes, you’ll actually live out of a backpack for nearly a year!)

Slowly, you will feel less afraid to utter the word divorce.

Your relationship with men will be light and playful. You will meet many in their 20s, and they will look at you in awe, wondering what’s so different about you than the other girls. The secret? Your confidence. You already have a decade of life experience on many of those you cross paths with on this trip, and it looks good on you.

I know it feels like you’ve “wasted” your 20s, spending nearly a decade in a relationship with a person (just one person!) who didn’t work out. But here’s the good news. Your 30s will feel like slipping into your own skin at last, bringing about a sense of spaciousness you didn’t even know you needed. You’ll travel more, hone your passions, and fully embrace your life as a single woman. If it’s cliché to say that 30 is the new 20, I’m going to anyway because now, at 42, I’m realizing that 40 might just be the new 30. I’m curious what my 50-year-old self has to say about that.

The more you share your story, the less ‘divorce’ will feel like a dirty word. The shame you’re feeling will dissipate. Each time you speak your truth, your heart will slowly be put back together, piece by piece. You will start to share your experiences outside your immediate circle and begin writing about them publicly. You will even have an article about your life post-heartbreak go viral.

Never forget that you have an amazing story to tell.

Your career will shift away from high-pressure corporate marketing to something more fulfilling, one where you actually feel like you’re helping people. You will volunteer. You will start getting paid for your writing (a huge confidence boost) and eventually launch your own coaching business, helping other women heal their hearts, too.

Remember how you said you always wanted to live abroad? But you “couldn’t do it” because of him? Just you wait!

If it sounds like you’re living a completely different life now, well, that’s because you are. It’s one that you created by your own design, not one built from society’s standards or based on the expectations of others.

It isn’t an overnight process (nothing ever is), but over the years, this particular heartbreak will fade into the background. You will speak about your divorce from a more neutral place, finding that the tears no longer come. It will become one of your greatest teachers and a powerful catalyst for how you’ll spend your next decade. Not only did you get through it, but you also built something beautiful because of it.

Choosing love is always worth it.

I know you aren’t sure if you want to have kids, but down the road, you will know for certain. Nothing is off the table, so don’t ever think it is.

Keep going to therapy and getting support. Keep nurturing your friendships (you’ve always been good at that). And trust that you don’t need to be in a romantic relationship to live a fulfilling life.

Your future self is so proud of you.

I love you.

Love,

Me, your 42-year-old self

…

Have you ever written a letter to your younger self? What would you say?

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Note: I’m introducing something new and recording an audio version to go along with my essays! I’ll be going behind the scenes and sharing additional details, including what inspired each piece, and then reading the essay out loud, from me to you. I’m so excited to offer this personal experience to my paid subscribers. We kick things off with this article, so please consider upgrading to a paid version if this interests you, and then click here to listen. Otherwise, you will continue to get essays from me just like this one, completely free of charge. Thank you for supporting my work. I’m grateful you’re here. <3

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I had only been to Paris once before, when I was 20 and knew absolutely nothing about the Parisian way of life. Truth be told, I hated it back then…I thought everyone was so rude! It turns out that I was just fulfilling the young, uncultured American stereotype—c'est la vie.

It was time for a rewrite.

A series of texts with friends from all walks of life led me back to the City of Light over 20 years later. (How am I old enough to even utter those words?!) I messaged one friend who lives in Paris, saying I wanted to do something “beautiful and bold” for my birthday. She said she LOVED that for me and would gladly host us.

At first, I sat on the decision for a few weeks, feeling a bit paralyzed. Was this a “reasonable” birthday trip? Could we handle moving around even more than we were already doing (which was a lot)? How costly would it be to get there?

And yet…I woke up thinking about Paris. I went to bed thinking about Paris. I journaled about Paris. I read Substacks about Paris. I spoke to my friends and family about Paris. Outside of sitting down and actually watching Emily in Paris, it felt like everything was leading to the same conclusion.

I needed to spend my birthday in Paris! And being located in Italy made it pretty easy to do so.

I secretly feared waking up on the 19th feeling lonely and uninspired, not because of my age, but because I was sick of my current routine and missing my people. It was clear that I needed to take action if I wanted to avoid feeling sorry for myself.

I finally succumbed to the desire, hitting “purchase” for two adults and one lap child on the Trenitalia website. Instantly, I felt lighter.

One week later, I found myself in Paris.

It was on this trip that everything shifted.

I spent quality time with friends who very generously hosted us. I finally (FINALLY) got the grown-up night out I had been craving. I had my first massage in years (thank you, Gail!). I wandered through beautiful gardens, picnicked on the Seine, and ran by the Eiffel Tower.

I dressed up more and curated outfits that made me feel a special kind of way. I applied black eyeliner and lip balm, the color of a ripe, juicy plum. I wore heavy gold earrings. I overpacked (on purpose) and went through four different pairs of shoes in four days.

Paris lit a fire in me. I took care of my mind, body, and spirit in ways that I hadn’t in a very, very long time.

It’s like I woke up, rolled out of the other side of the bed, and found myself living to my fullest expression. There was laughter. There were tears. There was running, walking, and dancing. There were colorful markets, delectable pears, and soft floral bouquets. There was dining in outdoor cafes, accompanied by chilled French wines and fantastic people-watching. (In my journal, I actually wrote, “People watching in Paris is fucking fantastic.”)

Being in the energy of a big, international city brought me back to life. Whatever I was craving, Paris delivered, no questions asked.

On the night of my birthday, sitting on a trendy terrace in Le Marais overlooking the 4th arrondissement, my friend Adrienne (whom I had originally met when we were both living in Mexico City) asked me how I wanted to feel this year. I sat on her question for a moment, running through feelings that I had previously desired, namely calm, joyful, and peaceful.

But as I chewed on her question over a bottle of rosé and shrimp tempura sushi, something bolder emerged.

“Do you maybe want to feel sexy?” she asked.

It was then that everything clicked.

Did I want to feel sexy? Yes, that is exactly how I wanted to feel. Because for me, sexy equates with being alive and taking action from a beautiful, bold place.

After spending the last few years in the throes of postpartum and tangled up in some maddening codependent behaviors, I was absolutely ready to feel something different.

I’m ready to make decisions from a different place, too.

Does it feel exciting? Does it appeal to me? Do I feel confident? Does it feel “sexy” (insert your own definition of sexy here)?

If not, I’ll leave it or I’ll find a way to make it so.

Later that night at a club appropriately named Le Flirt, a group of strangers and I belted “No, I don’t want no scrub” in unison, while I swayed and sipped my rosé near the DJ booth.

I closed my eyes, letting the hip-hop wash over me.

I felt more like myself than I had in years.

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Would you panic? Feel relieved? Take a sabbatical? Pivot? Follow a dream and start something new?

A part-time coaching job recently came to a close, and although I suspected this was coming (due to company changes and financial constraints), I’ve been going in circles trying to figure out what to do next.

To clarify, this was a job that I loved.

I spoke to and helped amazing women every single day. I coached. I wrote. I was immersed in the entrepreneurial and personal development space. My global teammates turned into friends that I strive to meet IRL. (Australia is calling!) It allowed me to spend ample time at home with my daughter. It lit me up and was a perfect complement to my other work as a coach and copywriter, while being worlds away from when I worked in a physical office for “the man” nearly a decade ago.

There’s a chance I may support this company again in the future, but since hope doesn’t pay the bills – and the simple fact that I cannot retire – I’ve set up some (ineffective) LinkedIn job alerts and have been weighing my options…

Should I apply for another remote position? Do I dive back into my own coaching business exclusively? Do I become a full-time writer and author? (This is me in a dream life.) Should I dabble in the corporate world again? Or, is it something else entirely/in between?

This transition happened during the peak of summer, so I was able to neatly pack away my worries and channel my energy into nourishing activities, like my parents’ visit to Europe, my daughter’s third birthday, and running and climbing like a happy little mountain goat.

I also spent this time stalling and overthinking every possible scenario. (I really am my own worst enemy.)

Now, September is upon us, a month that symbolizes a fresh start, new energy, and a blank slate. With so much to romanticize and celebrate (the ushering in of a new season, my birthday), I thought, why not shift gears and try something a bit more…productive?

In the midst of my indecisiveness, I’m giving myself space to do something totally different, even if it feels a bit terrifying to do so.

The space to dream.

Yes, even at 41 (nearly 42) years of age, even as a single mom (especially as a single mom, come to think of it), even with dwindling savings, even without a stable home base, I’m over here learning how to dream all over again.

What would I do if I didn’t have any limitations? What would I do if money were no object? What would I do if no one were looking? What would I do if accolades/titles/likes weren’t a thing?

Dreaming has been a challenge for my very Virgo brain and has brought some stark realizations to the surface: I have been feeling “stuck” for years now, unsure of how to “make everything work” as a mom and coparent, and while staying in this fear-based state, I’ve (temporarily) lost parts of myself — and my dreams — in the process.

When I ask myself what I really want my life to look like, sometimes my mind goes blank.

I used to start my day with visualizations, meditations, and journaling on what I wanted to be/feel/live/achieve. But then slowly, over time, I let those rituals slide and accepted the status quo, forgetting there’s more out there for me, should I want to claim it.

The ease with which I was able to let those steady habits go and replace them with something else entirely is startling.

When did I forget to dream?

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I’ve been through a lot of transitions and changes over the last few years, so I also want to give myself grace. Dreaming doesn’t come naturally to adults, like it does for children. (Throwback to my five-year-old self who wanted to be an author and illustrator of children’s books and then a pediatrician!) It takes dedication, discipline, and practice, especially when it feels like the world is on fire. (Let’s not get started on that. I’m not ready to go there.)

I’ve also been striving to make peace with where I’m at right now and have gratitude for the present moment. I’ve definitely improved at this, and it has made my life feel so much sweeter, despite its challenges.

AND this shouldn’t require that I put my dreams on hold.

"The entire point of life is to take chances on dreams that seem crazy to most but that feel like destiny to you" - Case Kenny

I believe that our dreams are put on our hearts for a reason.

So, with fears of failure and of being judged (most harshly by myself), I am giving myself the permission to dream again. No more waiting until tomorrow, which hopefully means no more forgetting that my dreams exist in the first place.

I have tools and resources that I’m excited to dive back into to support me further, but I want to start with you, right here, right now.

I dream of ease, peace, and presence. I dream of long runs at sunrise and slow beach walks with my daughter. I see us in a charming villa filled with sunlight, books, and a whole lot of love.

I dream of living in a vibrant international city, staying up late, putting on fabulous outfits, and attending community events with my favorite people.

I dream of money no longer being a worry. I dream of coparenting without tension. I dream of writing and sharing my work without filter, of publishing a book or two.

While this doesn’t give me all the answers on how to piece together my life and have a fulfilling career, it’s a start.

Because even with a peek into my dreams above, I also have dreams that are much, much bigger, ones that I’ve been afraid to confront, like…become a New York Times bestselling author, give a TED Talk, travel the world on a speaking tour…fall madly in love…own a cozy cabin where I can write in the mountains…summit (another) epic mountain…host (& attend) adventure retreats…(did I mention fall madly in love?).

I once had book-writing rituals and business coaches fully dedicated to these dreams. I opened Scrivener, set a timer, and only drank coffee when writing my book. (Note to self, figure out how to open Scrivener again, but ditch the coffee rule.) I applied for TEDx talks. I hosted and attended retreats, VIP days, and group coaching programs. I journaled about the future. I visualized myself at the next level and showed up as her.

And now, I don’t know if it’s due to a shift in priorities or the changing of seasons in being a mother, but some of these dreams seem pretty far off. They definitely aren’t impossible, but truth be told, I kind of…forgot about them, while throwing myself into motherhood. I placed them in a dark corner in the back of my mind, asking them to please stay quiet until I was ready to revisit such grand ideas.

Fortunately, and not surprisingly, I sometimes get reminded of these dreams through little winks from the universe.

That’s the thing about dreams. They may take a backseat, but they never really go away. And thank goodness for that, because I am ready to pick them up again, bit by bit. I’ll take the ones that resonate, leave the ones that don’t, and allow myself the space to receive whatever comes.

I may not have anything everything figured out career-wise, but remembering my dreams and taking the next step towards them is a start.

I once dreamed of living abroad, and here I am writing to you from Europe.
I once dreamed of having a child, and now my daughter is three.
I once dreamed of working for myself, and I’ve been doing that for eight years now.

Take one tiny action, celebrate, repeat.
Take action, have gratitude, repeat.

Dreams and miracles are possible. They happen every single day. As Gabby Bernstein, author of multiple NYT Bestsellers, says, “Live like your life is a miracle”.

I think the trick is being open to receive these miracles, and we can’t do that if we don’t acknowledge that they exist in the first place.

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I had intended to share about my (incredible) trip to Spain last month. The magnetic energy of the country, the pull towards Barcelona and the jacarandas, the way that it reminds me of Mexico City (in the best of ways). The idea that maybe, just maybe, we have a new place to call home on the horizon. Finally.

And yet…

After dozens of flights across multiple countries, long and short-term leases, online and offline research, deep discussions, therapy sessions, and trial and error, I have made another decision.

I’m hitting pause on the home search.

At least for now.

(Insert audible sigh of relief!)

I started this Substack last year while temporarily based with my parents in San Diego. The idea was to help me sort my thoughts and share as I navigate through multiple transitions, figuring out where to call home being one of them. I remember running through a list of options in my head: back to Mexico, back to Italy, somewhere new like Monaco or Spain…

Where did I want to live? How did I want to raise my daughter? What made sense from a visa perspective? Financial-wise? Family-wise? Community-wise? Education-wise?

And while I’ve loved researching, exploring, traveling, and sharing what I’ve experienced and learned, what I haven’t loved is the pressure.

The pressure to pick one (just one!) place to live indefinitely.
The pressure for my life to look a certain way, especially as a mom.
The pressure to choose the “right” education system.
The pressure to pick a culture to raise my daughter in.
The pressure to have this coparenting thing figured out.
The pressure to have it ALL figured out and fast. We aren’t getting any younger over here!

This is mostly pressure I’ve put on myself, of course, which is rooted in something much deeper.

My life hasn’t looked (or felt) traditional in years.

I’ve spent the last decade making peace with my divorce and decision to leave “the American dream” behind. I’m still making sense of my single mom and coparenting status. I’m actively working to rewire my conditioning, including all the “shoulds” that sneak in when I’m not paying attention. (I “should” be living more independently now, right?) I haven’t even been writing because I can feel myself censoring my thoughts before they’re even on the screen, for them to fit a certain made-up narrative and for everything to “make sense”.

Now? I feel called to hit pause and allow myself to just be. I can’t remember the last time I gave myself (and my racing, overthinking mind) that privilege. Can you?

I came to this realization while staying in the mountain town of Champoluc, my favorite place in Italy after Rome. There, my nervous system was more relaxed than it had been in a long time, and the sense of peace that washed over me felt like pure bliss.

Welcome to the present moment, I thought. Let’s stay here for a while.

We had already planned to be in the mountains for a couple of months this summer, when the weather is perfect, the trails are tended to, the playgrounds full, and the best gelaterias are open. We also have a family home here, so there are times when we get to stay rent-free and I am incredibly grateful for that.

During low season, however, things look dramatically different. The weather takes a turn, the tourists pack up and go, and most restaurants close down. (Goodbye, dear pistachio gelato.)

With this in mind, I had our next step laid out: a two-month trial this fall back at our favorite spots in Spain. After a successful trip there in June, I was VERY excited to get back!

While searching for short-term rentals, tapping into my network, and joining all the Spain expat housing groups, I received some news: a project I had been working on would not be continuing, and my beloved long-term, part-time coaching job would potentially be coming to an end soon, too.

I sat with the plot twist.

While I wasn’t entirely surprised, it did ask me to realign my choices with my new reality. Instead of using savings to pay for overpriced, short-term rentals (the housing crisis in Spain is real), why not just…stay put for a moment?

I don’t need to have one specific home base. I don’t even need to know where home is right now. Outside of societal norms (and tax purposes), who says I do?

This may not make sense to my Type A readers who always need a plan, or friends with kids who crave more stability, but it makes sense to me. And today I’m here to remind myself – and you – that this is all that matters.

Instead of stressing out every single day about what my unconventional life looks like and contemplating how to change it, what if I gave myself more time and space to sit with the discomfort of not having it all “figured out”?

What if I allowed that to be OK?

Where I live and raise my daughter doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing decision. Home can be simply where I am, where we are, right now.

And a “real” home? Something more long-term and stable? Something that’s entirely mine? I’m a firm believer that what’s meant for us won’t pass us by.

While I would love to be in one spot so my daughter can start preschool and I can give her a beautiful room of her own, a more permanent location, along with the logistics to support it, will appear on the path all in good time.

Until then, you can find us in the mountains…or elsewhere.

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It was nearly 9:30am, which might be late for some runners’ standards, but in the south of France, life just starts later. Who am I to fight it?

I was barely into the first song on my playlist when an idea floated in: running will help you find home.

…Wait, what?

The thought was simultaneously so obvious yet unexpected that I smiled and nearly laughed out loud (while running alone on the promenade, mind you).

Running and home. It couldn’t make more sense.

If you’ve been following along, you’ll know that I’ve been trying to figure out where to call home for quite some time now. The United States, Mexico, and Italy have all had their place in my journey, and yet, ever since my daughter was born nearly three years ago, I’ve struggled with staying put.

So, imagine my delight at being gifted with a new way to look at things.

Could running really help me find home?

When I run, I feel connected to myself in a way that doesn’t happen the other ~23 hours of the day.

I drop into my body, my mind becomes clear, and I simply exist in the here and now.

Grief over the past and anxiety about the future slowly fade into the background. If I’m feeling depressed, pissed, stuck, or just “off”, running will snap me right out of it. The physical act of moving my body in this way helps me tap in on an emotional and spiritual level. It’s a powerful way to process life’s events and a healthy alternative to stewing over my problems with a glass of wine. It’s also far more affordable than a new haircut or shopping spree. (Old Asia would frown upon that statement.)

It’s a tool for writer’s block, a way to strengthen my mind and body, and the best (free) therapy.

The list goes on.

The other day, I was in a horrible mood before starting one of my runs. Moments later, I found myself in a state of bliss, thinking, How can I be sad right now? It’s just so beautiful here (in Menton)!

If running is such an important factor in my life, why is it, then, that I stop running when I’m in some locations and can’t get enough of it in others?

(If you aren’t a runner, I invite you to replace running with something else that has a similar effect and then tell me what it is for you.)

Whenever I’m in San Diego, my running frequency goes way up. My bestie lives there (community) and is always training for something (lifestyle) so I like to join in when I can. (Plus, I’ve trained for more races in San Diego than I can count.) It’s also GORGEOUS running on the 101 (beauty), with a view of the Pacific Ocean (nature) and hot surfers (a bonus). The weather is mild (climate), making it an excellent spot to run year round. In short, everything feels just right for me to step outside and go.

Rome is another city that has this effect on me. When I lived there, running alongside the Tiber became my religion. I’d wake up, open my shutters, smile at the old man living across the street (who always seemed to be people watching), check for parrots (yes, really), have a banana and an espresso, put on my running shoes, and make the 60 second walk across the street and down the steep steps to the river.

Just outside my door, I had views of the Vatican rising above the chaos of tourists and street performers on the Ponte Sisto bridge, with a calm, quiet path for reflection and running along the river below. I loved the duality of it.

Running was also part of my routine when I lived in Mexico City, despite the poor air quality, but I barely ran when I lived in Playa del Carmen, and I’m hardly running now in the tiny village outside of Milan where I’m based. I just…don’t feel inspired to do so.

I want to live in a city that evokes a sense of euphoria in me. A place where I can’t wait to wake up and experience life, despite its challenges. Because those are never going away…but running can help me get through them.

Life is filled with its ups and downs, plot twists, and surprises. All those problems I had before I set foot out the door? They seem much more manageable once I’ve gotten a run in. It’s not to say they disappear, but suddenly they don’t feel so overwhelming.

I once ran for 30 days straight for my New Year’s Resolution. Little did I know that less than halfway through, my (then) husband would tell me we had made “a mistake” to get married. Despite the terrible shock and grief that coursed through my veins, somehow, I managed to keep on running. On the days I woke up and couldn’t stop crying, I would run anyway, tears flowing, my best friend alongside me. That was a HARD time. But running was my medicine.

Running has also been with me through the happier moments, too, including on my travels. Up and down volcanoes and icy mountains, on secluded beaches, and even in the steamy jungle, running has been my steady companion.

As any runner knows, some destinations are far easier to run in than others. (Have you seen that running vacations are officially a thing now?) I was in the midst of my one year solo backpacking trip, from Ecuador to Mexico, when I did a two month homestay and language immersion in a rural village in Nicaragua.

Any time I would run, men would catcall me. It didn’t matter what I wore, what time of day I set out, or who I ran with. I started running holding a rock, thinking…well I’m not sure what I was thinking. In my mind I could use this tiny stone as self defense. Once, I brought one of my male classmates along to “protect me” from the sheer nature of it all, but the heckling and stares wouldn’t stop. He tried to deflect, smiled, and jokingly said “ay, gracias!” as though they were harassing him. It was a kind gesture, but unfortunately I never felt safe running there, with a man, a rock, or otherwise. And don’t even get me started on the street dogs…

While this may be an extreme example, it serves as a simple litmus test: If I can’t comfortably run there, I refuse to call it home.

I just spent two weeks in Menton and couldn’t wait to step outside and run (or walk) every single day. It felt good, and natural, to do so. I wasn’t worried about a single thing, safety or otherwise. This doesn’t mean I’m calling it home, but maybe I could…

When I used ChatGPT to help me with my search, I specifically asked for locations with a strong running community. I’ve since come to realize that adding running to my list of requirements isn’t something just to check off the list.

I refuse to exist in a world where running isn’t part of my routine.

While it’s something I can technically take with me anywhere, it’s the places that make running feel like second nature, like home, that I want to be.

I may not know where I want to live just yet, but I’m getting closer. The places that I am most aligned with, and excited about, are the ones where I feel inspired to slide on my running shoes, step outside, and go.

After my grandiose announcement of moving to Italy, I feel as though I might be coming up short on what to share next.

I’m in a major period of transition and am unable to answer seemingly simple questions from people such as: Where in Italy are you based? Thinking about how to respond to this seemingly innocent inquiry gives me MAJOR ANXIETY. It sounds too permanent.

I’d like to rephrase the question and change it to: Where in Italy are you based right now?

There. Now I can breathe and give you a more accurate response based on my emotional state. :)

We are currently based just outside of Milan and have been here for one month now. One month! While I can say with certainty that Milan isn’t home for the long run, it has been an “easy” place to land (we have family here) while I consider the big questions:

Where is the best place to raise my daughter? Where will I feel happiest?

Historically, I’ve chosen where to live based on a feeling and can discern pretty quickly if somewhere is, or is not, for me. I’m a Reflector in Human Design so my environment is absolutely critical to my happiness. (I believe it’s critical for everyone, but I am incredibly sensitive to my surroundings.) I’m sure a feeling is what it will come down to for me again, but I can’t help but want to formalize the process and take my time now that I have a little one in the mix. (I also want to speed things up because I have been so restless and dare I say somewhat depressed in my current circumstances. The duality of it all…)

When I first started traveling and living abroad full time in 2016 (my post divorce era), I would Google blogs about a specific city, connect with expat groups on social media, pick my first Airbnb/hostel/volunteer site, and then venture out on a one-way ticket, deciding how long I wanted to stay after I arrived. I did this for my Latin American backpacking adventure, Mexico, and Italy (the first time around).

Now I view things a bit differently. It feels as though there’s too much at stake to consider such a laissez-faire approach. Arriving in a foreign country with a toddler (and all of her things) in tow does not make for the simplest of transitions. I want to do more research, look into the family scene, understand the schooling options, and do trial trips to uncover what it might be like to really live somewhere. I also have to LOVE IT, of course. I have needs too.

Since I’m not ready to hop on a flight or a train and explore IRL just yet, Substack has been immensely helpful. I’m following other expats who have chosen to base themselves in Europe, reading incredibly insightful articles on what it means to create community and start a new life abroad, with or without a child. I suppose it has also been slightly unhelpful too, in that I kind of want to move everywhere, including France, which was never on my list before. If you’re someone who writes about, well, anywhere, please share your Substack with me below so I can imagine a day in the life in your city and country of choice. :)

The Virgo in me is also very happy to start with a checklist. To help me turn this huge decision into something more palatable (and fun!) I'm adding AI into the mix. I asked ChatGPT to give me some suggestions to get my creative juices flowing. Here was my initial (too vague) prompt:

Please help me come up with a list of cities to live in in Europe based on the following criteria:

1. Affordable
2. In or near nature
3. Good, clean air quality
4. Family friendly
5. Strong expat community
6. Coworking spaces and strong wifi

The first option was Ljubljana, Slovenia…Now, I have nothing against Slovenia (I’ve never been) but I was thinking of options a bit…warmer, and more specifically in and around Italy or Spain.

I decided not to refine my search quite yet and continued reading. There’s no judgment in the brainstorming process, right? Imagine my delight when I got to #4 and saw somewhere already high on my list of cities to look into: Valencia.

I know what you might be thinking. But Asia, Italy is your place!! I don’t disagree with you. I always feel the most excited, alive, and at home in Italy…and, I want to keep my options open. I’m trying to keep an open mind and heart as I consider the long-term implications of basing our little family somewhere. It isn’t all about me anymore, and I know that wherever my daughter is raised will undoubtedly help shape her.

Thinking about this makes my head spin. The US is getting scarier by the minute, and while there are many things that I absolutely LOVE about Italy, there are also things that make me cringe (like anywhere to be honest). I’ve heard that Spain is “family friendly” but I haven’t yet experienced this for myself. I know nothing is permanent and that I can always pivot. I’m SO GOOD at the pivot. But I really want to find a place that sticks this time around. If it doesn’t, maybe my daughter will be content to move around a lot, similar to how I grew up, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Moving 24/7 is quite exhausting. I’m not in my 20s (or 30s) anymore!

I am also deeply craving community and want to put down roots somewhere, while also staying connected to the other communities I’ve created around the world. The sadness of always leaving by Russell Max Simon does a beautiful job summing up how I feel.

The answers to the bigger, philosophical questions obviously need more than crowdsourcing or an AI prompt. To truly understand the intricacies of living in a new city, you need to spend time there, and if you’re anything like me, to feel it out.

Not wanting Slovenia to show up in my search results again (the average temperature in Ljubljana is 10ºC, reaching -28ºC between October and May…no thank you!), I updated my prompt to the following:

Please help me come up with a list of cities to live in in Western Europe based on the following criteria:

1. Easy to live on $X,000 USD per month (I kept adjusting this number, but did you know the average monthly salary in Italy is 1,400 euros (net)? I’ll leave it at that.)
2. In or near nature
3. Good, clean air quality
4. Family friendly
5. Strong expat community
6. Coworking spaces and strong wifi
7. Running community
8. Montessori or Waldorf schools
9. Warm climate

You’ll notice in this version that I have a mix of practical aspects (such as a specific budget range, ease for remote work, and ideal weather conditions), as well as some more values-based criteria (such as running community, family friendly, and type of schooling).

I was given nine cities to consider in Spain, Italy, France, and Portugal. This list was more up my alley for sure. From there, I got more specific with my questions around schooling, different neighborhoods, and budget. It has been a fun exercise and one I will continue to do as I reflect on my values, needs, and desires.

🇪🇸 Spain: Valencia, Alicante, Málaga
🇵🇹 Portugal: Cascais, Faro (Algarve region)
🇫🇷 France: Nice, Montpellier
🇮🇹 Italy: Cagliari (Sardinia), Sicily (Palermo or Catania)

Not surprisingly, Valencia appeared. Again.

Valencia is an incredible option based on your criteria. It’s one of the most affordable coastal cities in Western Europe, with a fantastic balance of nature, culture, and modern amenities.

I’ll admit I was a bit disappointed that more places in Italy didn’t make the cut. I previously lived in Palermo for six weeks in 2020 (shoutout to the Sicilian family who hooked me up with their adorable villa near the beach for free), so fortunately I don’t need to visit to know that I wouldn’t enjoy living there full-time. I felt a bit uneasy there as a woman (you can only hear principessa so many times before you crack) and even had a stalker at one point.

Sardinia is tempting, and multiple people have suggested that I check out Cagliari, which I will, but I don’t think I want to live on an island. Always a nomad at heart, I’d prefer a place with easier access in and out.

I had a feeling why Rome, my favorite city EVER, wasn’t listed, but I asked, just to test AI’s logic, and this is what it said…

Rome isn't on the list because it doesn’t fully meet all of your criteria, especially in terms of affordability, air quality, and strong expat-friendly infrastructure compared to cities like Valencia, Málaga, and Alicante.

It also said “If history, culture, and an Italian lifestyle are priorities, Rome has no competition...” I must say I wholeheartedly agree with that statement. Rome is pure Italian magic bottled up in one swoon-worthy city of golden light. I was just there to celebrate a friend’s birthday and it will always have a special place in my heart. I just don’t know if basing myself there is the solution. The good news? Rome will always be there.

At the end of the day, am I going to make a decision based on artificial intelligence or the opinions of strangers, both solicited and not? No.

I am, however, going to take into account what matters to me most and filter everything through that lens. And I can’t wait to see how that feels.

If you have an expat friendly place you think I should check out, please share below. I’d love to hear from you. I’m in full research mode at the moment which, as anyone with wanderlust knows, is an exciting place to be.

It is actually happening!

Luna and I fly to Italy TOMORROW. TO LIVE.

I am in a sheer state of panic and planning and questioning my entire life as I know it.

Even after writing about it, talking to my therapist(s) about it, and thinking nonstop about it, I still do not feel quite prepared for what’s next: a move to another continent.

Yes, I have lived in Italy before. Yes, I have been there multiple times since. But these facts don’t take away the feeling of being uprooted (again) and having to figure things out (again). I was feeling pretty settled in San Diego, even though I knew it was temporary. My friends are sad to see me go because they’ve gotten used to me sticking around as well. Six months is a long stint in my world! I didn’t even know if I’d be around for my birthday, and that was back in September.

I normally get soooo excited each time I fly back to one of my absolutely favorite places in the world. I get caught up in fantasy and romance the hell out of Italy. (I feel bad saying hell when I will be in such close proximity to the Pope, and also, I am not Catholic so I believe I get a pass.)

This time, however, I am filled with more nerves than excitement. Does it mean I’m making the “wrong” decision? I don’t believe in wrong decisions, but even if I did, I would say no. I believe I can chalk these nerves up to fearing a sense of permanence. A feeling that real, sustainable change is juuuuuust around the corner, and if I keep moving forward, I can almost feel myself in a home that is, well, mine.

It’s both exciting and terrifying at the same time. Both can be true and that’s OK.

Most of my moves to other countries have happened with one-way tickets and no lease waiting for me. I like to feel my way into things first, explore, and take my time. The same can be said for this move. There’s no return date and there’s also no contract...for now. I’m staying somewhere where I can be flexible and allow things to be fluid.

So yes, this IS a big deal because this is my life. And also, I can always pivot. Nothing is set in stone.

There is so much more to unpack on what prompted this decision, but that’s for another post. This one needs to be quick as I am a notoriously last minute packer and I still don’t have one item of clothing in a suitcase!

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The word I selected for 2025 was ‘home’. Even though I feel like a nervous wreck right now, I know this is a step closer towards my deepest desire and intention for this year and beyond.

It’s time for another shot of espresso (un caffè) before getting back to packing. The next time you hear from me, I’ll be in Italia!

Ps. I just smiled while writing that. :)

I started this series to help me find a place to call home. I’ve been feeling stuck in the in-between, and so what better way to get clarity than to write about it? (Plus my therapist suggested I do so, and she knows me better than most.)

After leaving the US in 2016 to backpack through Latin America (part 1) and then moving to Mexico City in 2018 (part 2), I casually hopped across the Atlantic in 2020 to give Italy a try.

Upon first impression, one thing was clear: la dolce vita suited me.

I spent my days eating some of the best food in the world (I dare you to challenge me on that), washing it down with delicious, affordable wine. I adored my solo restaurant dates and the way the servers either fully ignored me or hardcore flirted with me. There was no in between. I spent my days walking (and walking and walking, you do a lot of walking in Europe) to get to know whatever city I was in, getting lost in the history and cobblestone streets. I shopped in Milan. I sailed in Sicily. I went truffle hunting and picked wild asparagus with a man named Matteo. It often felt like I was living in a movie, one where I was the main character. I soaked up as much of this beautiful life as I could.

I might have even loved living in Italy more so during the tail end of the pandemic, without all the tourism. While there were plenty of restrictions and things I couldn’t do, it also allowed me the opportunity to get to know Italy in a way that most never will. Can you imagine the Colosseum grounds completely empty or having the Trevi fountain all to yourself? The ability to live there during this crazy time was a privilege that came along with having an Italian passport and something I did not take for granted.

The longer I stayed, the harder I fell.

After several months of treating Italy like a boy I wasn’t quite convinced I should fully commit to, assessing whether to go all in on this new love affair or return “home” to Mexico City (where I had continued paying rent for several months after I left…I know, I know, commitment issues), suddenly everything fell into place. I found myself in a city where I absolutely thrived, one that beckoned me to stay.

The city that officially forever stole my heart was dear Roma.

I quickly fell into my stride in Italy’s breathtaking capital, building community, working at a yoga studio, walking to my local market, writing from expat friendly coffee shops, and taking weekly virtual Italian lessons. I had even signed a one-year lease which felt HUGE at the time (still does).

It felt like a dream, creating this life for myself in Italy. I’ve never felt this way about anywhere else, and it might be the happiest I’ve ever been.

If you haven’t been to Rome, or spent more than a couple of nights there “to see the highlights”, I highly encourage you to book a ticket RIGHT NOW. Ok maybe not right now since 2025 is Jubilee and there is going to be a crazy influx of tourism and you know how I feel about that. But definitely add it to your list of places to get to know in the future. I’ll be sure to write a full post of everything I adore about this magical city. For now it lives on an Instagram highlight.

There are challenges with settling into any new country (or city or state for that matter), of course, and I spent a lot of time alone in my studio apartment without any real plans. I wasn’t fluent in Italian so it was hard to make meaningful connections outside of the expat world. I was casually dating but craving true partnership, and from what I had seen so far, settling down with an Italian could prove to be quite tricky (iykyk). Plus, nearly everyone smokes in Italy and that just grosses me out.

These nuances aside, it quickly became clear to me that Rome was meant to be my home for the long run. I just felt it in my soul. There’s no other way to describe it.

I returned to Mexico City to officially close my chapter in Roma Norte (noticing a theme?) and flew back to Italy with the rest of my things. I was proud of myself for committing and finally making a decision! I even started looking at real estate. Never had I ever loved a place so much that I considered putting down more permanent roots.

Italy had my heart and nothing, NOTHING, was going to pull me away.

That is, of course, until I got pregnant.

The plot twist of all plot twists.

I’ve been back to Rome many times since I packed up and left. It will never feel the same as when I was carefree and reckless childless. My Virgo brain can make an argument for living – or not living – just about anywhere, but the truth is, nowhere will ever be perfect. Not even dear Roma, although it will always hold a special place in my heart. Maybe I’ll return one day for another more permanent stint. Maybe not.

I’ve come to realize that it’s time for me to stop overanalyzing my past and start trusting what’s in store for my future. As we head into a new year (and soon to be a new location!) I have decided to make things easier on myself and simply surrender to what is. My gut will know when a certain location is right, and besides, it’s always good to leave a room for a little magic along the way.