When people hear that we left sunny Southern California to move into a 300-year-old farmhouse in the French countryside, they tend to respond with wide eyes and wistful sighs. “How magical,” they say, picturing croissants on the windowsill and lavender fields out back.
And yes, there are croissants. And yes, our doctor’s office shares a wall with a 15th-century church. But let me be clear about something:
This was not the convenient choice.
It was, however, the deliberate one.
We chose a life in France. We chose immersion. We chose to raise our kids in a different culture, to trade Target for tractors and Trader Joe’s for weekly marchés. We chose to be outsiders. We chose discomfort.
Because underneath the romance and the scenery and the baguettes still warm from the boulangerie, living abroad is a masterclass in not knowing what the hell you’re doing.
And you know what?
I’m no longer afraid of not knowing what the hell I’m doing.
There’s a funny thing that happens when you rip yourself out of your comfort zone and plop yourself into a place where even the toothpaste aisle is an existential crisis. You adapt.
At first, painfully.
Then clumsily.
Then confidently.
And finally, almost unconsciously.
We’ve learned to translate documents on the fly, write polite-but-firm emails to school administrators en français, ask our neighbors for help (a lot), and navigate French bureaucracy without crying in public. Most of the time.
Our kids have watched us do all of this. They’ve seen their parents model curiosity, humility, and relentless problem-solving. They’ve heard us mispronounce things and laugh it off. They’ve learned that being “the only one who doesn’t get it” isn’t a tragedy - it’s just the beginning of understanding.
This is not the kind of education you get in school. It’s the PhD in being-a-human. More specifically: a human who doesn’t run from discomfort.
Because here’s the thing: Discomfort isn’t a bug in this life. It’s the feature.
Living in California would be, in many ways, easier. Familiar systems. Shared language. A decent burrito within five minutes at all times. But ease wasn’t the dream.
We wanted the different. The slower. The stranger. The older. The quieter. The deeper. And in pursuit of that, we’ve had to stretch - mentally, emotionally, logistically, linguistically.
There were moments, early on, when I was ready to call it - ready to relocate somewhere where everyone speaks English and bureaucracy feels like a familiar beast. I’d stare at some of these French bills that looked less like invoices and more like wartime intelligence. Like I was one Enigma machine away from cracking the code. I’d hand it to my husband and whisper, “What if we just moved to the UK?” English-speaking, easier to navigate, fewer mental gymnastics. But then my husband would remind me: the soggy weather, the sky-high housing prices, the driving on the wrong side of the road, and the haunting absence of good coffee. We joke, we rally, we stick it out.
And slowly, discomfort became not just tolerable, but useful. Clarifying. Humbling. Even…kind of addictive?
It wasn’t just the country. It was the countryside.
We traded city living for rural rhythms. We rarely eat out. There’s no carwash around the corner or boutique gym on every block. If I want to do cryotherapy, I have to walk out into the morning frost.
We deal with things like:
Rats (I KNOW. We’re getting a cat.)
Chickens lost to local wildlife
The occasional warning from the mayor about a wild boar hunt in our woods
Mud, everywhere
But also:
Silence
Space
Trees older than the Constitution
Stars
Community
Horses over fences and cows as neighbors
And Paris? It’s just a train ride away.
We didn’t move to France because we were running away from something. We moved because we were running toward something. Toward a life of intentional living. Toward curiosity. Toward adventure. Toward a better understanding of ourselves and our kids and how to be a family in the world, not just in one particular zip code.
Discomfort wasn’t an obstacle to that dream. It was the price of admission.
And now that we’ve paid it, we’re realizing: it’s also the gift.
So if you’re dreaming of a new life, a bold change, a leap into the unknown - don’t be afraid of the discomfort. Let it change you. Let it teach you. Let it shake the dust off your routines and remind you how alive and adaptable you actually are.
It’s hard. But it’s worth it.
Besides, once you’ve had to discuss a French mortgage application over the phone (in broken French) while being chased by an evil rooster and your child yelling about being hungry…
Well, let’s just say, you stop sweating the small stuff.
And you start breathing in the big stuff.
Like the sound of your kids speaking in two languages.
Like the wind through ancient trees.
Like your own voice, getting stronger, even as it stumbles.
Welcome to the wild, wonderful education of living abroad.
You won’t ace every test.
But you’ll learn everything that matters.
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très bien Madam Longstreet!!
Madam Longstreet.