We’ve lived in France for over two years now. And I have often heard this question - sometimes directly, sometimes in passing, sometimes as a barely-coded judgment:
“But aren’t you just running away from your problems?”
And I get it. I really do. On the surface, that’s kind of what we did.
We left Los Angeles - our careers, our families, our roots - and moved to the French countryside with our two young children. We didn’t know anyone. We barely spoke the language. We had no extended family within a 20-mile radius to swoop in during meltdowns or fevers or moments of existential crisis. We didn’t even know how to set up our WiFi.
What we did know? That something wasn’t working. That we were exhausted, crowded, stretched, and constantly one headline or election away from questioning everything. And we weren’t okay with that being “just how life is.”
We weren’t running away from our problems so much as walking (briskly, with a double stroller and a suitcase full of melatonin) toward a different kind of life. A slower one. A greener one. One with 12 weeks of paid vacation and school lunch menus that include boeuf bourguignon and a cheese course.
“Why not just stay and fight to make it better?”
I’ve heard this one, too. And again, I understand the sentiment. It’s noble. But I’ve also never seen anyone ask a woman to stay in a toxic relationship and “fight to fix it” because she’s already invested so much.
If you feel unsafe, unhappy, unwell - in your body, your marriage, or your country - you’re allowed to go. You’re allowed to change. You don’t need permission. And you don’t have to justify it.
And yes, we know we’re lucky. This move took planning. Saving. A whole lot of spreadsheets. But the dream had been whispering to us for years, and one day we looked at each other and said: What if we stopped dreaming and started packing?
We weren’t rich. We were tired.
We were two working parents, living in a 500-square-foot, 1-bedroom apartment with our two kids. It was a great location - right at the beach, close to family - but we couldn’t afford a second bedroom, much less a yard. We were working all the time. Paying up the wazoo for part-time preschool. Spending hours in traffic. Commuting 30–60 minutes to school, daycare, music lessons, birthday parties. Trying to stay creative and connected while hemorrhaging time and energy just getting groceries.
Our dream was simple:
What if we lived where we actually wanted to live, and figured work out from there?
We wanted affordable housing. We wanted more nature. We wanted safety - the kind that doesn’t require shooter lockdown drills for kindergarteners. We wanted better food, better healthcare, and a culture that values family time and long lunches and not glorifying burnout.
So we came to France.
Do we miss things? Absolutely.
We miss our families. We miss peanut butter that doesn’t cost 7 euros. We miss stores being open at all hours and on all days.
But mostly? We feel free. Not perfect. Not problem-free. But freer. We live in the French countryside, in a home surrounded by fields and forests and castles and cows - and we pay less in rent than we did for our tiny one-bedroom apartment in L.A. Our kids run outside barefoot and say “bonjour” to their friends, teachers, and cheesemongers. And we have just enough distance to finally breathe.
We were running. But we weren’t wrong.
You don’t have to stay in the same place forever just because it’s what you’ve always known. You don’t owe your geography a lifetime of loyalty. And feeling disillusioned by your home country doesn’t mean you don’t love it. It just means you’re paying attention.
There comes a point when you start asking harder questions: Is this still the life I want? Is this the place where I want to raise my kids? Am I thriving here, or just surviving? And when the answer keeps coming back as a tired, aching “no,” it’s okay to make a change.
You’re not betraying your country. You’re choosing your future.
In the end, we chose.
We chose not to grind ourselves into dust just to keep up. We chose not to settle for “just surviving” in a system that no longer worked for us. We chose a life where we get to eat dinner together most nights. Where the milk is local, the air is clean, and the bureaucratic offices are maddeningly inefficient, but no one ever sends you a bill for $1,400 after a 10-minute doctor’s visit.
And no, it’s not perfect. France has its own problems. (Don’t get me started on the paperwork.)
But we traded certain problems for others. And the trade has been worth it. For us.
There’s no one right way.
Maybe you love where you live. Maybe you’re working to make it better. Maybe you’re dreaming of going, but not sure how. Maybe your version of “leaving” isn’t geographical at all - maybe it’s about lifestyle, or mindset, or community.
We’re not here to say our choice should be yours. We’re just here to say it was a choice. A good one. A hard one. One we’d make again in a heartbeat.
So were we running away?
Yes.
Toward purpose, toward hope, and toward very good cheese.
À bientôt,
Kamille
A note for new readers: we’re an American family living in rural France, restoring a small château, and writing it all down here.
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Wow, this is a powerful post. Thank you for sharing your reasons. So much of what you wrote prompts difficult questions in my mind.
Oui! Très bien madame! Vote with your feet and seek your joy. We still need your vote on Election Day please.