SECOND Wind

The other day, I sat down at my computer to clean up some old files I hadn’t touched in years. I came across documents from when I started Dress for Success in Denver—files I no longer need or use. It made me realize that retirement really does give you the time to focus on these kinds of tasks. I had thought about decluttering my computer countless times, especially after moving back to Seattle from Thailand in 2017, but somehow never got around to it. Now, with more time on my hands, it feels good to finally tackle it.

Well… yesterday, I stumbled upon eight chapters of a book I wrote about my move to Thailand. WOW—it instantly brought all those memories and emotions rushing back. So, I thought the perfect place to share them would be here on my blog. Yesterday, I cleaned up Chapter One, titled “Timing,” and I’d love to share each chapter with you as I go through them. Some of you might remember me from that time, or maybe it’ll resonate with anyone considering a move abroad. Either way, writing has always been a passion of mine, and I just wish I had embraced it earlier. But as the first chapter reminds me, timing really is everything in life!

So here we go, sit back and if you are interested give it a read!

Chapter 1 – Timing

They say “Timing is everything,” but it’s not until this very moment that I truly understand how true that is. It’s like the universe has been quietly aligning itself, waiting for this precise instant when I’m finally ready to embrace change. There’s a thrill in the unknown—an intoxicating rush of possibilities that sweeps you off your feet, as if you’ve slipped into a dreamlike state where reality blurs and anything feels within reach. And then it happens. Words tumble out of your mouth before you’ve had a chance to catch them, before you even realize you’ve spoken. For a brief second, you’re suspended between disbelief and regret, wondering if you should have taken more time, chosen your words more carefully. Was it the wine loosening your tongue, or did those words come from someplace deeper? But there’s no turning back now. You said it. The question is: what happens next? Did those words hold the meaning you intended? Did he hear them the way you hoped?

“Let’s just sell everything and move to Thailand.”

The words left my mouth before I could fully comprehend them. Did I really say that? We had just finished remodeling our home—my sanctuary, my kingdom. I had everything exactly as I wanted it, but somehow, in that moment, none of it seemed to matter. I wasn’t thinking about what it would take, or how our lives would change in the next four months. I just said it. There it was. Timing.

I lived in a neighborhood that filled me with joy and a sense of freedom. Two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard—you know that song? Well, that was me. I had it all. A convertible Volkswagen Bug, and now a garage to shelter it from the cold, the rain, the sleet, and the snow. 

My bathroom floors were heated, and I had a bathtub that cradled my 5’9″ frame perfectly, offering the kind of relaxation only luxury could bring. My closets—beautiful, with sleek Asian faces—held my clothes like treasures on display, each piece suspended in elegance. Thai décor graced the rooms, carefully placed in corners or on walls, turning each space into a masterpiece. The vibe in the house was perfect, a harmony of warmth, love, creativity, and simplicity. Even the walls, chosen with care, wrapped around you like an art gallery, creating a sanctuary of comfort and inspiration. 

The back patio was a stage for endless nights filled with friends, barbecues, and stargazing over glasses of wine. The fence provided just enough privacy to separate us from the neighbors, creating our own little world. Conversations with loved ones flowed, surrounded by the vibrant blooms in Thai ceramic pots. After long days of work, we would unwind, and I’d watch as my husband found quiet joy in the fruits of his labor. He had a vision for the house, one that suited us both, but the process was grueling. Slowly, the words between us became fewer. I didn’t realize how much harder it had become for him to smile, as his work pulled him in directions he couldn’t control. His heart eventually sent a clear message: slow down, the stress was too much. Stop carrying it all alone. Timing—like I said, it was always about timing. Looking back, I see now that I was meant to change our course. He never would have said those words. I had no idea what was coming, both inside and out. 

Our home was a small oasis in the city, built in 1900 and modernized to reflect what we envisioned for ourselves. When we first bought the two neighboring houses, they were in shambles. The house we lived in was cloaked in swirling green ivy that crawled across the brick, giving it an almost Asian feel against the cloudy Denver skies, with window dormers shaped like Thai roofs. It stood out, unlike any other house on the street, alive with character. We began by fixing up the house next door, converting it into rental apartments for extra income, while we tackled the daunting task of transforming our own. Thirteen long years passed before we finally shaped and painted it into a masterpiece.

It became our private sanctuary, an escape from the hustle and bustle of Denver, even though it was only six blocks from downtown. But when I wanted to reconnect with the world, the front porch and its welcoming door invited life back in. Two chairs and a small table turned that tiny porch into our own little café, a place to watch the world go by. Our cats would sit behind us on the windowsill, purring softly, their noses pressed against the screen. They were city cats, never venturing outside. We had dinners on the porch, and after hours, we’d sip wine, savoring the quiet. It was everything you could hope for after 58 years in the world. I never took any of it for granted; I’d lived with far less. This home was more than just a place—it was my everything. And yet, in a split second, I found myself willing to let it all go. Poof. Gone. It wasn’t the physical stuff I was giving up—it was the memories tied to it all. But in the end, it was just stuff, right? I could always get more. That’s what I told myself, and so it was. Every word I spoke seemed to take on a life of its own, preparing me for what was about to unfold.  

The day after I uttered those fateful words, I called my husband at work to see if he actually agreed with what I’d said. We could just laugh it off, right? It was the wine talking, after all. We’d been reminiscing about our time in Thailand 15 years ago, how much we loved it there. I had soaked in the culture while he worked, never really getting to experience it the way I had. So the idea of going back must’ve sparked something in him. But still, I wasn’t ready for what he said next. “Let’s do it,” he replied, so effortlessly, like the decision had already been made.

I hadn’t expected that. But once again, timing was on his side. We could sell everything and move to Thailand—what was stopping us at 58 and 60? We had the means, the capital, the freedom. But were we crazy? Maybe. Yet, the thought didn’t seem so far-fetched anymore. 

We were living with tunnel vision, fixated on the desire for a quieter, more peaceful life. We wanted to forget the chatter of family members who spoke to us and those who didn’t. We longed to breathe deeply, to savor the moments we had together rather than chase after that elusive almighty dollar. We envisioned managing our hours in a way that truly suited us, embracing a stress-free existence. I was weary of apologizing for God knows what, tired of feeling trapped in the rat race, constantly questioning what I should be doing with the rest of my life. It was time to break free from the expectations and find a path that felt authentic. 

What happened to my passion and purpose? Where had it gone? It felt trapped somewhere in my mind, buried beneath a scenario I’d learned to accept over time. As long as I was making money, living in a nice house, driving a nice car, and wearing nice clothes, I was part of the scheme of things—I was living the American dream. But that was never what I truly wanted; it just unfolded without my awareness. I didn’t equate my belongings with who I was; they were merely external trappings. I knew I was so much more than that.

How could we balance our desires in an economy that seemed to keep rising higher? With the election looming and fear of the outcome swirling around us, it felt like the perfect time to head toward the horizon of Thailand. I wasn’t stuck in a 9-to-5 job; that burden fell entirely on my husband, who was digging himself deeper into a life that no longer resonated with us. Many might say we ran away, but to put it simply, we chose to leave. It was that straightforward. 

The timing happened to be just right. 

When would the timing be right to share our crazy notion of leaving everything behind for a better quality of life in a country like Thailand? I realized there would never be a perfect moment. Timing had become everything in our world; every fleeting second seemed to revolve around it. My friends were in disbelief when we finally told them. They would never have guessed we could do such a thing—not in their wildest dreams. They would be flabbergasted by the whole idea, especially since they could never picture my husband entertaining such a thought.

What they didn’t know was that he had reached his breaking point. He was worn down and defeated. This was a man who had always thrived, yet he had lost his zest for life amidst the chaos of our city and neighborhood. Our marriage needed this change too. With my idea, I offered him an escape. After all, I was the one who voiced it, the one who set everything in motion. God, what have I done? It’s all going to be okay, right? The signs were all there, urging us to move forward. Every conversation about leaving brought forth a flood of reasons why it made sense, all the hopes tied to the changes we sought.

Telling my family would be difficult, especially since only one of my three children was even speaking to me at the time. The child who had given birth to my grandson seemed to understand our decision and was genuinely excited for us, which was a pleasant surprise. But then there was my grandson—every March, I had flown to Seattle to celebrate his birthday, making those moments feel special. I reassured myself that it would be okay; I could Skype him every week, just like I did when I lived in Denver. No problem. That was my plan to stay connected with everyone.

After all, technology has made the world so much smaller. Everyone would adapt, right? No, I realized I was wrong. My timing somehow shifted, and what felt like a new adventure quickly became a source of tension. 

My mom would be devastated. She wouldn’t understand why we were leaving. At 80, our relationship had finally improved, and she called me every day. The thought of her not knowing how to use Skype filled me with dread. I was leaving, and I feared she wouldn’t cope well—especially at her age. I was her lifeline in so many ways, even if she never quite acknowledged it. I was her daughter, and it had taken a long time to begin wiping the slate clean for both of us.

I told myself my family would be fine. My first thoughts centered on what they would say—or, more often, what they wouldn’t say, which was usually the case. Most of them lived in Seattle, and I made an effort to visit at least three times a year, sometimes more. When my husband was with me and we rented a car, we always drove to see everyone we needed to. They wouldn’t really miss us that much, I reassured myself, using this logic to make it easier to bear.

Gatherings during the holidays were rare; flying was expensive. I never burdened my kids with guilt for not being with me during those times, even though I longed to look around the table on Thanksgiving and see all their faces. I imagined them waking up with me on Christmas, all of us in matching pajamas, laughing and cooking breakfast together. I cherished those daydreams of togetherness. I didn’t want to impose on them; I wanted them to visit because they wanted to be with us, not because they felt obligated. 

Every year, I made it a point to attend my grandson’s birthday celebration, from the moment he was born up until now. I wanted to be there for him, to ensure he knew me. From the first time he opened his eyes and looked at me, I felt a connection as if we had met before. My oldest daughter, his mother, has always been such a special woman. Whenever I needed her, she was there, loving me unconditionally without judgment. I believe she understood how difficult life could be at times and recognized that I did the best I could.

She had her own challenges, and in her, I found the understanding I needed. We both tried to navigate life as best we could. We were always able to air our differences and move on. I knew she would be fine; she had a wonderful partner and a thriving business. She was busy creating a home for her son, and of all my children, she would be the one to visit. She had the means, the desire, and a spirit of adventure that ran deep. 

At this point, my only son could hardly have cared less. We had a relationship to heal, and I knew that, when the time was right for both of us, we would find a way to do it. We shared many of the same traits, and as his mother, I loved him beyond belief. He was working through his own challenges, while I was quietly addressing mine. To him, I was just a thorn in his side; my decision to move to another country likely didn’t faze him. But I hoped that this distance would give us both the time and space we needed to reflect, allowing us to reconnect when the moment felt right. 

My youngest lived in New Mexico, just a six-hour drive that I always enjoyed. It was the Land of Enchantment, and I felt a wave of stillness wash over me as I crossed the border and caught sight of the mountains. I often visited, playing the role of mom during her surgery, and I always found peace there. Being in New Mexico felt like a vacation, filled with fun hikes, great dinners, and meaningful conversations. Yet, I often shared too much, which sometimes became a burden. I saw her as an adult, not a child, unaware of the inner child that lurked beneath the surface. When life was good, she would visit me in Denver too, but our relationship was filled with ups and downs that made my head spin. I never quite knew where I stood in her world, so I assumed she would be fine without me as well.

My kids were all adults now, each leading their own lives, with significant others and unique journeys. I realized I was no longer a significant part of their lives, and I had often tried too hard to be included, only to be shut out time and again. I didn’t want that anymore. I understood the pain it caused me, and I had shed countless tears over it. 

I had all the scenarios mapped out in my head, convinced that everything would be just fine. In some ways, I realized I was running. I wanted my kids to love me, respect me, and not judge me—that was my wish. More than anything, I wanted to rediscover myself, the person I faced in the mirror each day, free from the weight of others’ opinions. I wanted to love myself first and take care of my own needs. I was exhausted from trying to please everyone; it was a pattern I had followed my entire life.

I didn’t blame anyone but myself; I allowed it. There was a strange tension between wanting people to love me and fearing their judgment, and often, the critics were my own family. In the end, I wondered, would they truly be there for me? When I closed my eyes and searched for an answer, all I got was a “maybe,” and that just wasn’t good enough.

I was tired—plain and simple. Tired of being everything to everyone while wearing a big smile, hoping to ensure their happiness and well-being. Somehow, it felt like it all depended on me, and I could never quite figure out why. So, what did I do? I smiled through it all, always putting on a happy face so everyone else could, too. 

The timing of those words was significant for me as well. I realized now that timing is like an orchestrated dance—essential and precise. It truly was everything. Exactly four months to the day after I spoke those words, we left for Thailand.