I Moved to France for Love

Joy, beauty, grief and self-discovery in the first year.

My friends tell me they get a kick out of living vicariously through my adventures as a 50-something American woman who has completely and unexpectedly upended her life (and work) for a big love in the City of Lights. I know what they mean.

There are times even now, after being in France for a little more than a year, that I feel completely apart from myself, like an observer squinting quizzically, watching the former me (a die-hard New Yorker and a committed, slightly snarky single lady) transform into another creature altogether—a tender and wondrous and expanding being. I watch her unevenly, messily emerging from the chrysalis, discovering all her newness. New husband and family, new home, new country, new language, new culture. Sometimes I have to look away.

Love offers us so much and demands so much. Her gifts are many, but they come with challenges to the person we were before—challenges that are exciting, difficult, sweet, frustrating and surprising. So many transformations all at once.

Before I met my husband (let’s call him Monsieur B for now), “married” was honestly not a status I thought I would ever want to share online or embrace in reality. Admittedly, I worked for years as a successful wedding planner who secretly didn’t believe in the “institution” of marriage.

I’d spent my twenties in the New York City restaurant business, then my thirties and forties in the world of events. My pool of close friends was small but adorable. I had traveled, often choosing Paris, always taking French classes because I’ve loved the language since I had my first lesson in middle school.

In what seemed to be the never-ending second pandemic spring of 2021, I was exhausted from sheltering alone and working on my startup in a tiny Brooklyn apartment. I was fatigued from fear and masks and the absence of dinner parties. A natural wanderer, I had been paralyzed by too many months of clipped wings and closed borders.

“I have to get out of here,” I whispered to myself. “I have to go back to Paris.”

So in April 2021, I planned a trip for late June. France was still off-limits to Americans, and airfares and Airbnbs were incredibly cheap, so I took the risk anyway. In my Fort Greene cabin-fever delirium, I convinced myself that everything would be OK. I took a sip of rosé for good luck and clicked, “Confirm your trip.”

Sure enough, the borders reopened only days before I left. I had originally planned a month-long stay in Paris. It was a “remote working” concept, not a vacation, with French classes at the Sorbonne and a side visit to Bordeaux. But at brunch one weekend before I left, a friend gave me some advice.

“You should really stay at least six weeks,” she said. “A month isn’t enough to really settle in.”

At first, six weeks seemed decadent to me, even though as a consultant, I can work from anywhere. In the end I decided to grant myself the extra time, and my friend’s advice turned out to be spot-on. It was during the last two of those six weeks that I met Monsieur B.

I promise to tell the whole story of how I met my husband later, because it’s pretty delightful. But since the purpose of this post is to make space for the feelings I’ve experienced since turning my old life upside-down for a new one in Europe, for now, let’s jump ahead to nine months after we met, when we were married by the mayor in a medieval village outside of Paris.

Right after the wedding, I returned to New York City alone—but only temporarily this time. I had to pack up my apartment, to celebrate with and say goodbye to friends, to leave behind a dazzling town. I had to part with the place that I thought would be my forever home, a stressful, scintillating city I had always dreamed of conquering. In the end, we had conquered each other.

Before the wedding, Monsieur B and I had talked about where to build our new life together—New York or Paris? But in reality, there wasn’t much of a choice. He has two teenage children with whom I also fell in love. He’s worked for the same company for sixteen years, and he owns his homes in France. He’s a person who values roots and family and history as treasures to guard and celebrate.

I on the other hand was a free-spirited entrepreneur.

My work is largely in writing and consulting. I had sold my apartment at the beginning of 2021 and was trying to decide what was next. My family ties were tangled and fraying. I’ve always loved France and had spent the last few years studying for a DALF C1 diploma in the language, probably my proudest accomplishment. It was kind of as if I had been preparing myself for a future I could never have imagined.

But in addition to all that, who wouldn’t want to move to Paris for love? Like many others, I had dreamed of taking on Paris solo, building a little nest there for myself, but had thought if it ever should happen, it would be even later in life. Just me, toute seule, a golden girl in Paris, wandering through les petites ruelles, sitting in cafés.

So yes, when I fell in love and the question presented itself in real time, it was huge. Would I make that move, and trade one life for another? Would I dare to jump across a vast ocean from the safety of the “known” shore, to a land I had only experienced as a tourist? I would have to leave everything behind and believe in what we were feeling.

In fact, though the implications were enormous, the decision itself was remarkably easy. Both the man and the country were perfect for me. My answer was, “Oui.”

Once in France, it was a whirlwind of giddy evenings and weekend jaunts with my new mari (husband), days spent stuffing thick files with paperwork for the French administration, and three months waiting for a ship to bring the few remaining boxes of my worldly possessions. I had sold or given away almost everything in New York.

The thing is, I was extremely well-prepared for this kind of move. I’m a natural risk-taker, have been an entrepreneur for years, and have navigated more than one big transition. I immediately started the process to create a company in France, rented an office, joined a French running club, and jumped right into a very sweet life with Monsieur B.

But even so, from time to time in Paris, I’d find myself mysteriously sad, anxious, or just feeling dull or unmotivated. I was in the middle of closing a company I had been building for the past four years in the US, and contracts with other clients were in flux. I’d wake up at night with my heart racing, or just stand on the street staring at a pretty door for way too long. Often I was embarrassed when I misunderstood something someone had said to me in French (I’m supposed to be fluent, after all) or when I couldn’t seem to navigate “the system” here.

As an example, getting my French driver’s license was a (your-favorite-expletive) challenge, and during the nearly one year (!) that it took, I definitely cried in the middle of the street. The way the driving schools and the exam process work here (and possibly the schools I chose) had the effect of slowly eroding my confidence in my own driving abilities, which was a real surprise and frankly, quite a bummer to me.

I mean, I had been driving since my sixteenth birthday, learned on a manual transmission, drove in snowstorms in Ohio, parallel parked my mom’s Alfa Romeo on a hill, and lived with a car in Manhattan and Brooklyn for close to 25 years. A few months into the French process, I had a realization. To get through it, I needed a cultural attitude adjustment, and that really got under my skin. #opportunityforgrowth ha!

In my first year here, there has sometimes been a fleeting, low-grade sadness. While I rarely ever went to McDonald’s in the States (or McDo, as we call it here), I have occasionally experienced a Proustian-level craving for a Big Mac, fries and a fountain diet Coke. It’s like I need something simple, something visceral (if highly caloric) to connect me to my “old” self, or maybe even to connect me with my childhood? Why in the world is this move bringing that up? Well, that’s the truth. I’ve stood on a beautiful bridge in Paris, simultaneously sobbing and eating a cheeseburger meal from Mickey D’s, my face splotchy from tears. And it helped.

I finally talked to one of my dearest friends about it. At first, I was reluctant to say anything around these feelings I perceived as shameful. I didn’t want to sound ungrateful.

“God, I live in Paris!” I told her. “Seriously, I found the best husband ever, and with him I also got his incredible family, who have welcomed me so completely. I am unbelievably happy here. I now see France as my forever home and my chosen future.”

I started to argue to my friend about how, thanks to my husband, I’ve learned (for the most part) not to work on weekends, because in France your time away from work is valued very highly. I was building a case for why things are so good, why I shouldn’t whine about anything. I didn’t have the right.

She stopped me. “Darling, you are grieving,” she said. “Yes, you are happy, you love the new life you’re making, and yes, your husband is fantastic. But don’t forget, you had to give up a whole life to get the new one, to make room for all this. That’s not nothing.”

Until then, the thought of loss hadn’t really occurred to me. I was focused on all the good things that were coming into my life and on what I needed to do to make sure not to screw it up.

I had told myself I was being overdramatic or that I needed to get it together, to be more productive, to move forward. But what I’ve come to realize as a result of my friend’s wise and kind counsel, is that we do have to take time to respect—and to be with—these big feelings, even with the discomfort and uncertainty that accompany change and reinvention.

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In my notebook, I found a list of some things I’ve discovered.

• Moving to another country demands a special kind of courage.

• Committing to love someone takes an impressive leap of faith.

• Opening a new chapter requires turning a page.

• Productivity and progress are not possible every single day, nor should they be the absolute goals or measures of our success.

• Transition takes time and sometimes tears, even in Paris.

• We have the right and the responsibility to honor the struggle, and even the pain, that accompanies any great shift within our worlds, whether that shift is an inner one or a move across the world, or both.

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