I have been told lately—a lot- that I’m brave.
It’s because I quit my job and decided to be a writer. Because, instead of taking up painting or pickleball when I became an empty nester, I put the family nest up for rent and set off across the ocean with no particular destination in mind.
‘Brave’ can mean a lot of things but what most people seem to mean is that I am being plucky, or reckless—foolish. Batshit crazy, maybe. They’re not entirely wrong. I’ve staked my ability to pay my mortgage on a guy I’ve never met, and a family I don’t know is going to live in my home with my stuff.
I have stepped off the work-to-live merry-go-round and blown up my life.
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