When my husband and I told people we were selling everything we owned to travel full time, most assumed we were either having a midlife crisis or chasing an early retirement fantasy. The truth is, it was neither. It was something we couldn’t quite explain at the time, only that we felt called to do it.
We were 50-something empty nesters with 35 years of marriage under our belt. We had four grown daughters and nine grandkids, a house we loved, a business we’d built, and a life that, on the surface, looked good. And it was good, even if we felt like something was missing. We had fallen into a rhythm that felt more like repetition. It was like living the same day over and over again.
Then, during COVID, I had a cancer scare. It turned out to be benign, but in the long, terrifying weeks of waiting, everything shifted. All the routines and responsibilities that once felt essential suddenly seemed arbitrary. I realized how easily we could run out of time, and how much of our lives we had spent putting things off. That experience cracked something open in us.
We started asking harder questions. What if we stopped waiting for the right time? What if we actually did the thing we always said we’d do “someday”?
We started joking about “running away” and living out of a suitcase. Then the jokes turned into spreadsheets. Spreadsheets turned into lists. And before we knew it, we were sitting on our living room floor, surrounded by decades of stuff, packing up donations and wondering if we’d completely lost our minds.
Spoiler: We had. In the best possible way.
We sold the house, the cars, even the furniture. We got rid of the lawnmower, the sectional, and the juicer I swore I’d use one day. We kept what we could carry in two suitcases, put a few special things in storage, and had a sense of purpose that was both thrilling and terrifying.
We boarded a one-way flight to Bali with vague plans to return for Christmas. We had no fixed itinerary and absolutely no idea what we were doing. That was two years ago. Since then, we’ve lived in 15 countries, traveled more than 120,000 miles, and learned more about ourselves than we did in the previous 30 years combined.
The logistics were tough, but the emotional part was even harder. How do you explain to your adult kids that you’re leaving? Not just for a week or two, but for the foreseeable future. That you’re skipping the stability you once preached and embracing a lifestyle that even you don’t fully understand?
There were tears. There was confusion. There were hugs and heart-to-hearts and promises to FaceTime. One of our grandkids asked if we were going to live in space. Another said, “You’ll be back in a week.” I laughed at the time, but part of me wondered if they were right.
Some of them think we’re on every airplane they see in the sky. You should see the looks of confusion when we’re actually with them and they see a plane overhead.
I wrestled with guilt in ways I never expected. I had been a mom for so long, and was so excited to be a grandmother. It felt strange to center myself in the story of my own life. What kind of woman chooses adventure over baking cookies with her grandkids?
But here’s the thing. I spent decades making sure everyone else was OK. This was the first time I asked what I wanted. And what I wanted was to live intentionally, explore the world with my husband, and create a new kind of legacy, one built not just on stability, but on curiosity and courage.
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