A little over five years ago, my family and I left the familiar rhythms of Montréal to begin a new chapter in England. The move was prompted by my husband’s wish to take on a new role within his company, but the truth is that the desire for change had been quietly stirring long before. We were approaching fifty, not in the throes of crisis, but perhaps a little too comfortable for our liking. We had built a beautiful life: three children growing steadily toward independence, routines well established, a mortgage paid off, and days unfolding with reassuring predictability. From the outside, it might have seemed we had done everything one is meant to do. And yet, beneath that comfort lingered a familiar restlessness.

The thought that this might be “it,” that life would now unfold along a predictable, well-worn path, felt less like contentment and more like quiet stagnation. So when the opportunity arose, we recognized it not only as a professional step but as a personal one. A chance to stretch again, to unsettle ourselves deliberately.

It was a bold decision, made improbably in the midst of the COVID pandemic, yet undertaken with anticipation and excitement. At the time, I also believed, perhaps naively, that such a global crisis might stir something profound within us collectively, that it would remind humanity of life’s fragility and our shared vulnerability, and might even inspire a gentler, more united world.

But as I write now, that optimism is harder to summon.

Continue reading “letting go, beginning again” →