Packing the Past for One Wild Dream (And Why You'd Be Proud I Chose Courage)
Taking down photos to move to our mountain home, Gran, I remembered when I could only bring a handful across the world - and the courage it took to pack up 25 years of love.
Dear Gran,
I'm packing up our house in Labuan Bajo today, carefully taking down the gallery of photos that line our living room walls. Pictures of the girls and grandsons, my Indonesian family, friends from around the world, moments of joy captured across continents. I'm only moving them up the mountain to our ‘Rumah Panggung’, our new wooden house built on stilts in Lehong, East Flores. But holding each frame brings back the memory of another packing day, when I could only choose a handful of photos to bring across the world.
Eight years ago, I had to pack up 25 years of life, love, and motherhood to chase a dream that asked me to let everything go. Today, surrounded by evidence of the beautiful life that courage built, I want to tell you about the terror and wonder of choosing myself for the first time.
You were so proud of that leap, Gran. Even though it nearly broke my heart to take it.
Coming Home Euphoric (And Terrified).
I came home from Thailand glowing with freedom and possibility. My hair was three shades lighter, my skin four shades darker, and I was eight pounds lighter from months of adventure. I was buzzing with plans to return to Gili Trawangan as a dive professional, to live the dream I'd discovered in coral reefs and turquoise waters.
But as the plane touched down in England, reality hit. I wasn't just packing a suitcase - I was dismantling 25 years of carefully built life.
You understood that overwhelming feeling, didn't you, Gran? When dreams collide with the weight of everything you've accumulated, everything you've promised to protect?
Where do you even begin to pack up a quarter-century of motherhood?
The Archaeology of Love.
This wasn't just my story I was packing away. It was two-and-a-half decades of memories with the girls. At first, the clear-out felt cathartic. I found baby teeth in tiny envelopes, christening dresses faded with age, first paintings and school uniforms, every report card and class photo.
Remember how you used to keep everything, Gran? Every drawing I made, every school certificate? You understood that a mother's job is to be the keeper of memories.
There were last-day-of-school shirts covered in Sharpie messages from friends. Their entire childhood in cardboard boxes, waiting to be sorted into "keep," "store," or "let go."
I found a stack of letters I'd written to the girls' father when he was deployed with the Royal Navy. Years' worth of those ultralight blue sheets we used to fold and send through BFPO. Some had tiny handprints, others had crayon drawings of our life at home. Reading them transported me back to those years of single parenting, waiting for his ship to come home.
You knew those letters, didn't you, Gran? You helped me write some of them, especially when the loneliness felt too heavy.
Boxes and boxes of photographs from before digital cameras, back when we sent film to Truprint and waited a week for memories to come back on glossy paper. Photos of me joining the Navy, the girls as toddlers, holidays and birthdays, Christmas mornings and first days of school.
These were the easiest decisions. I drove them straight to my friend Kate in Birmingham, who offered her garage as a museum for the things that mattered most. Someone I trusted to keep our history safe.
The Flat That Nearly Broke Me.
Back in the empty flat, I went into full project mode. I wanted every ceiling, wall, skirting board, and door painted before the new owners arrived. I rewrote my schedule daily, constantly underestimating how long everything would take.
But as the date drew closer, doubt crept in like fog.
That flat had nearly broken me to buy, Gran. Remember the financial stress? The market had crashed, and I couldn't get a big enough mortgage. So I borrowed the final £25,000 on five credit cards, all on the day of exchange so it wouldn't count as debt. Mad, I know. But it worked.
The girls and I moved in broke, exhausted, and stressed, but finally back in the center of Harpenden. They could walk to school. No more 8-mile taxi runs every morning. It was home.
And I was about to give it all up for a dream that might fail.
You'd have been torn watching me struggle with that decision, wouldn't you? Part of you proud of my courage, part of you worried about the practical consequences.
The Blue Paint Memory.
The living room had seen five color changes over the years, each one marking a new chapter of our lives. When Deanna left for university, Emily and I swapped bedrooms, and I decided to paint it ocean blue - maybe practicing for the life I was secretly planning.
The girls and a friend helped. I left them to do one wall while I ran out for supplies. When I came back, Deanna was covered head to toe in blue paint, standing against the wall with a grin. "Can you see me?" she giggled.
I had a complete sense of humour failure, Gran. I was so stressed about deadlines and perfection that I couldn't see the joy in the chaos. Her friend was running laps between the bedroom and balcony to avoid my wrath.
You would have laughed, wouldn't you? You'd have seen it for what it was - a full-blown comedy sketch, a memory being made. You always could find the humour when I took myself too seriously.
Looking back now, it's one of those moments I carry with pure love. The kind of beautiful mess that makes a house a home.
And that was the pull, Gran. If I left, where would the girls come home to?
When Fear Started Talking.
"My darling girl," you used to say, "guilt is just fear wearing a respectable outfit."
Both were talking loudly as moving day approached. Could I really walk away from everything I'd built? Was I being selfish, choosing my dreams over their stability?
My friends were brilliant. They cheered me on even while saying, "I could never do what you're doing." They promised to be there for the girls. One said, "You're that friend - the one who gave it all up to follow her dream."
But underneath their encouragement, I felt lost. Homeless before I'd even left.
The last week, I stayed with Dad. I hadn't lived with him since I was 18. We spent election night drinking gin and watching the sun rise, talking about courage and regret. He kept reminding me it wasn't irreversible. If it didn't work out, I could come home, get a job.
Dad was convinced I'd be back by Christmas. He knew me well - how I get itchy feet the minute I reach a goal.
Maybe he was right. But I also knew this: if I didn't go now, I'd regret it forever.
The Terror and the Truth.
Those final five weeks were brutal, Gran. There were days I stayed under the duvet and did nothing. The flat felt like a scrapbook I couldn't bear to close.
But something bigger was calling. Your voice, maybe, reminding me that dreams don't have expiration dates.
I kept telling myself what you'd taught me: If you live an ordinary life, you will only ever have ordinary stories.
Standing in my empty flat on that final day, surrounded by boxes labeled for storage, I chose five photographs to bring with me. Five images to represent 25 years of love. It felt impossible and necessary and heartbreaking.
You would have helped me choose, wouldn't you? You'd have known which memories needed to travel and which ones were safe to leave behind because they lived in my heart.
The Life That Courage Built.
As I pack these Indonesian photos today - images of the life I built with that terrifying leap - I can see what you'd see, Gran. A woman who chose courage over comfort and built something beautiful from that choice.
My gallery wall now holds pictures from three continents. My daughters visiting me here, looking proud and adventurous. Indonesian family who adopted me completely. Friends from around the world who've become my chosen family.
The handful of photos I brought from England sit among dozens of new memories. The girls didn't lose their home - they gained a mother who showed them what it looks like to chase your dreams, even when they scare you.
"My darling girl," I can hear you saying, "you didn't pack up your life. You unpacked your potential."
That flat in Harpenden gave us roots and security when we needed them. But it was never meant to be the end of my story. You knew that, even when I was too scared to see it.
Home isn't where your photos hang, Gran. It's where you're brave enough to be yourself.
Thank you for teaching me that courage isn't the absence of fear - it's choosing love over fear, dreams over security, growth over safety.
The woman unpacking photos in this wooden Indonesian house built on stilts - she's the girl you raised to be brave. Even when being brave meant packing up everything familiar and trusting that love would catch her on the other side.
From the quiet of the mountains, walking beside you.
