Roamer 0: Me

Before I ask others to share their stories, it only feels right to share mine.

Everyone who leaves home — or even thinks about it — feels either a push or a pull.

For me, it was always a pull. A quiet tug toward something I couldn’t name.

I’ve said for years that I think I was born in the wrong country, though I can’t tell you exactly why. There isn’t one big reason. It’s more like a thousand small ones — none decisive on their own, but together they form a steady gravity.

And for me, that gravity has always pointed toward France.

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The pull began early

I started French in 7th grade, and something in me just clicked. I loved the language in a way I didn’t have words for yet. I took it every semester through university — not because I had to, not because it was useful, but because it felt like some part of me recognized it.

In high school, I hosted exchange students.

I went on a two-way exchange myself.

In college studied abroad.

I reconnected with old friends and made new ones.

I soaked in as much as I could — but I never fully assimilated. I never got the chance. It was always temporary. Always on a return ticket.

And I kept thinking:

What happens if one day, the return ticket isn’t forced?

What if I choose not to get on the plane?

I’m not an expat.

I’m not an immigrant.

But I dream of being both.

I’ve tried to “do life right”

I backpacked across Europe — alone, with friends, through airports and train stations and tiny towns I still think about years later.

I did the responsible things too.

I climbed the corporate ladder.

Bought the house.

Got the degrees.

Built the résumé.

Made the money.

Checked the boxes.

I’ve been working since I was 16.

I became a mini adult before I had a chance to be anything else.

Eventually, I paid a therapist a lot of money to tell me that what I was experiencing at 25 was basically a midlife crisis — not because something was wrong with me, but because I had accomplished everything I was “supposed to” and none of it felt like me.

It felt like I had worked tirelessly to get to the top of a mountain… only to realize I was on the wrong mountain, in the wrong industry, on the wrong ladder, staring at the wrong view.

France kept welcoming me back

I went back for weddings, holidays, and babies of the exchange students I hosted in high school.

Every visit was longer.

Every goodbye felt heavier.

Every time I left, some part of me stayed.

My desire to move abroad didn’t arrive in a dramatic moment or a burst of inspiration. It wasn’t out of necessity, and it wasn’t escapism. There was no collapse, no crisis, no single breaking point. For that I am lucky.

But still, it was subtle. Gradual.

A slow recognition that the “American dream” felt more like American dread — and France felt like ease. Like possibility. Like… home.

And now, after years of back-and-forth, the path is becoming real.

I qualify for a visa.

I’m close.

I’ll be ready soon.

But even a pull comes with grief

As exciting as moving abroad is, I think there’s a built-in grief process that no one talks about. And honestly? I think that grief is beautiful.

It’s the grief of leaving your life as you know it.

The grief of friends you won’t see as often.

The grief of missed holidays and new traditions.

The grief of a version of yourself you suddenly realize you’re outgrowing.

You can want something deeply and still feel the ache of what you’re stepping away from.

That duality matters.

I think that’s where the truth of these stories lives.

What scares me isn’t the visa — it’s everything around it

The visa process doesn’t intimidate me.

Paperwork, logistics, documents — those I can handle.

What scares me is the orchestration of the whole journey:

The dream.

The decision.

The planning.

The letting go.

The identity shift.

The assimilation.

The becoming-who-you-are-somewhere-else.

There’s no blueprint for that part.

Nobody prepares you for who you’ll be on the other side.

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Roamer 0

I’m not the first roamer in this project.

I’m not even a roamer yet by my own definition.

But I wanted to start here — with my own story — in case it makes other people feel more comfortable sharing theirs.

Because moving abroad, whether it’s a push or a pull, always starts with a story.

This one is mine.

And I’ll be making it back to France — back to where my heart feels most at home — sooner than later.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “I’ve felt that pull too,” or you’ve had your own push you’d like to share, then you’re exactly who I want to talk to next.