When you decide to leave, everyone assumes you’re running from something. Bad memories, a failed relationship, a place that broke you. But sometimes you’re not running from anything. You’re running toward something, and what you leave behind is just the cost of that ticket.
My youngest daughter is the anchor and I’ve written about that separately. If you haven’t read The Conversation With My Daughter, that’s probably the most honest thing on this site.
My son is twenty-four and still lives with me. I still support him to some degree, not because he can’t eventually stand on his own but because he hasn’t had to yet. Two jobs in twenty-four years. As I write this he’s in an interview, and I mean that literally, I’m at work on light duties with enough time on my hands to put this down, and I’m sitting here hoping it goes well not just for him but because his independence is part of what makes leaving possible. He has his mother so he won’t be without a net. But he’s still my kid and the thought of an ocean between us when he’s still finding his footing sits in my chest in a way I can’t fully explain.
My oldest daughter who I love very much and am proud of but who I don’t have much of a relationship with right now. That’s the plainest way to say it. She’s still my daughter and I’m still her father and I haven’t stopped hoping that changes. Distance might actually help that more than proximity has. There’s something about removing the friction of shared geography that sometimes lets people find their way back to each other. I’m not counting on it. But I’m not closing the door either.
Then there’s my mom. She’s eighty-one. She has dementia and Alzheimer’s and it’s getting worse. There’s no clear timeline but it doesn’t look good. She doesn’t know about my plans. She’s old school, and in her mind if I leave I’m gone for good. Maybe in some way that’s true. What I know is that she was the one who held four kids together while my father was away on UN peacekeeping missions. She kept us fed, kept us happy, kept us in line when she needed to. She did that largely alone and she did it well. I’m leaning toward staying until the end, not because I think it matters to her at this point, I don’t think she’ll know who’s in the room at the end. But it matters to me. When my time comes I probably won’t care either. But right now at fifty-three I know I’d regret not being there for hers.
Derek has been my brother in everything but blood. We met when I first arrived in Ottawa, back in my pre-teens, and he’s been there ever since. After my marriage ended he took me out of the country for the first time, Cuba, and that trip was a middle finger to a decade of staying put while someone else left the country without me. Since then we’ve been to the Dominican Republic and Mexico together. Every exotic country I’ve ever set foot in, I’ve set foot in with him. If this site exists, if this idea of living abroad exists in my head at all, a significant part of that is Derek. He’s the one who showed me what was possible. He’d come with me if he could. He’s talked about it and I hope he does one day.
John came into my life just this past year, a coworker, same age, same sense of humor, same way of looking at things. We clicked fast in the way that doesn’t happen often enough after forty. He doesn’t think I’m crazy for wanting to leave. If anything he’s been considering it himself. He’s newer but he’ll be missed in the specific way you miss someone you just found.
Dan and Trina have been in my life for over twenty years. They’re a couple and they’ve shown up for me more times than I can count, financially, emotionally, in every way that actually means something. I haven’t figured out how to tell them yet. I know they’ll have opinions. Strong ones. That conversation is still something I’m working out but this article may take care of that.
My brother is the one sibling where I feel it most. I’ve looked up to him my whole life in ways I’ve never quite said out loud. We have the same reference points, the same sense of humor, the same way of seeing things that makes a conversation with him feel easy in a way most conversations don’t. I think he’d visit. I believe that and that helps.
What I’m leaving behind is the comfort of people who know me. The routines. The stability of a life built piece by piece over decades. Friends who’ve earned the right to have opinions about my choices. A mother who’s running out of time. A city that’s been home since I was a kid.
The desire to give myself a better life outweighs all of it. The missing, the longing, all the stuff that makes us human. I’m not happy about it. But that’s the trade. That’s the cost of the ticket out.
I’ll stay in touch with all of them the same way I will with my daughter. Video calls, phone calls, maybe visits back. Flying home is not cheap from Albania, but it’s not impossible either, and I’ve priced it out. But it won’t be the same. They’ll be here. I’ll be somewhere else trying to figure out how to live. And I have to be okay with that.