Expatriatism

Guts you don't regret

Guts you don't regret

Tis the season of report cards, graduation ceremonies, and mid-year reviews. A time to appreciate the gradual yet often excruciating achievements of the year (like future tense conjugations in French).

 

It’s also the time when a big day shows up in my calendar. Not my birthday or wedding anniversary or my kids' birthdays. None of that. 

 

It’s July 6th. The day I did something so scary I literally thought my heart would explode in my chest. Even thinking about it now makes me quiver a bit. 

 

On July 6th, 1999, I boarded a one-way flight from NYC to Paris, leaving behind my family, my friends, my boyfriend, my four cats, my job, my apartment, and my beloved Brooklyn. 


And for no real reason.


I mean, there were reasons. But they weren’t life-or-death reasons. This wasn’t anything like the exoduses my ancestors took to save their skin generations ago. 

 

It was just that I had this nagging feeling in my belly, this constant, flickering sensation since childhood that I had to live in Paris. 

How Do You Know When It's Time To Get On That Plane?

How Do You Know When It's Time To Get On That Plane?

I’ve done two totally terrifying things in my life.

  1. Move to France 18 years ago

  2. Give birth to my second son sans meds

Every other experience I’ve had in my 43 years on this planet pales in comparison on the “holy shit I don’t think I can do this” spectrum. I’ve often thought about these two moments as seminal “warrior woman” milestones in my life. So massively hard but unthinkably rewarding they’ve come to symbolize a source of strength and determination in me that I didn’t know I had.