Starting Over: From Burnout to Belonging (Sort Of)

Leaving the U.S. wasn’t just about packing up and moving; it’s been an emotional shift. When we chose to start over in Portugal, I felt a mix of relief and fear—relief at leaving behind the grind of American life, and fear of the unknown. Would this new chapter really give us the fresh start we hoped for? What were we even searching for? Looking back, I realize the journey wasn’t about reaching a destination, but about learning to live in the in-between, facing unexpected challenges, and reimagining what "home" truly means.

The Big Leap (or Maybe Just a Step)

Moving out of the U.S. wasn’t just about packing up—it was a huge emotional shift. When we first moved to Portugal, I felt relief, excitement, and some fear. Would this give us what we were looking for?

People don’t talk enough about how disorienting and emotional it can be to move between countries. I used to help people relocate, and one thing I’ve always said about culture shock still holds true: it will find you, and it almost always hits in unexpected ways.

One of the most unexpected culture shocks hit me slowly after we moved to Portugal, during a time when our visa status was uncertain. It kept getting delayed—still during the pandemic, with Covid protocols and Covid-related pop-up shops everywhere. Maybe it was just typical bureaucracy, but after more than six months, the stress became overwhelming in ways I hadn’t expected.

Some of my own "shocks" have been more like slow burns—things that build up over time. Some I’ve learned to accept, while others still stress me out until I either find a solution or make peace with them. It’s like that quote—possibly from Hemingway—about bankruptcy: it happens gradually, then all at once. Or something like that. Honestly, I’m not sure if it was Hemingway, but the internet says it was, so I’ll go with it.

Rebuilding a Life While Figuring It Out

Looking back, I think I’d handle that uncertainty better now. But at the time, with everything else going on, it added a layer of tension that gradually became overwhelming. We were still processing the aftermath of leaving the U.S.—our jobs, a complicated home sale, and all the emotional baggage that comes with such a significant life change.

Even now, as we continue trying to settle into a new country, that sense of uncertainty hasn’t disappeared. It’s the flipside of knowing more: when you don’t fully understand the options, it’s easy to make quick yes/no decisions. Once you do, the gray areas become much harder to navigate.

Portugal was beautiful—Porto still holds a special place in our hearts. The experience brought unexpected discoveries—new places, new people, and parts of myself I hadn’t explored in years. I’d always thought I’d write more in New York, but somehow, I never did.

Leaving was just the beginning. The real work came later—rebuilding, reimagining, and redefining life abroad. For me, it meant confronting years of burnout. Moving overseas isn’t a vacation; the challenges are real. Navigating systems, building routines, and adapting to uncertainty takes effort. It’s rewarding, but the hard work continues even after you’ve settled.

Bertrand and Lorraine, who left city life for a farm in Auvergne, seemed to find their rhythm. Their rural life was beautiful, but demanding. Building their own house while running a farm was a huge feat, balancing endless tasks. In the end, I’m not sure their dream unfolded as they first imagined, or if it evolved as they faced the realities of farm life.

We haven’t visited them since we moved, and I wonder if their journey mirrors ours—constantly adjusting, redefining what feels right as life unfolds. But isn’t that what we all do, no matter where we are?

Neither Here Nor There: Navigating Identity Abroad

We once dreamed of that quiet, simple life (which, to be fair, doesn’t look all that simple—but it sure is quiet at night). I still wonder sometimes if country living would be the right path for us. But maybe the right path only reveals itself as you walk it.

For the record, all of my French friends say I shouldn’t live in the countryside. “You’re good with people, not cows,” one reminded me.

Even as we meet new people here, some see me as the "typical American," which feels strange because I don’t see myself that way. I don’t feel like I fit in the U.S. anymore. I’ll never be French either, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe we can still make a home here.

France might not be forever, but it’s starting to give me some clarity. Home isn’t a destination; it’s something you create, piece by piece. Letting go of the guilt for leaving teaching and the need to have everything figured out has been part of that process. There’s still uncertainty, but as Bertrand said, waiting for the perfect moment is a trap.

It’s something that’s only recently clicked for me: we’re not searching—we’re building. Home is wherever we carve out space to thrive, and this is our next step.

Hey! Thanks for reading! 

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– K