October 1, 2022, 5 am. I sat on the floor of my empty apartment with an Egg McMuffin in hand and my stomach in my throat, memories and fears ricocheting between the cracked plaster walls. Are we really doing this? The friend who offered to drive me and my cat to the airport got up in the middle of the night, plus hit the 24-hour drive-through for me on the way over, so it seems we are.  

After 13 years in the same apartment—and almost 30 (!) in the same city—it was time to let go. And it was a full-meal-deal kind of terrifying. Supersized.

It’s hard to imagine that was three years ago. What a journey it’s been since. I had no idea then, but it was only the first of many iterations of letting go. Starting with…

My cat

Mimine was ancient, so I knew I’d be saying adios to her sooner rather than later. But as any pet parent will tell you, you’re never truly ready, even when you are certain it’s time. She’s buried in the Mayan jungle where the other big, brave cats roam, but a few of her ashes still travel with me – so I suppose in the physical sense I haven’t entirely let go of her yet.

In addition to the jungle, she’s in a planter overlooking a rice field in Bali, in the shade of a massive pine tree in Carcross, Yukon, and in a saguaro forest in the desert of Baja California Sur.

Some releases happen gradually, and that’s fine.

Then came…

Stability

Not being responsible for another living being gave me the freedom and flexibility to dip my toe into the world of house sitting. I did not expect that two and a half years later, I’d still be at it. Throw in a few work trips and an unexpected family detour, and it adds up to this: Since I left Puerto Morelos in the spring of 2023, I haven’t stayed put in any one place for more than five months—and most spots only for one or two.

People keep telling me I need to pick a spot and settle down, but I’m still listening to see if that’s actually true for me or just social conditioning. Maybe my friend Karen’s reaction to that feels the most right: “No, you don’t.” After a few years of living in Mexico, she and her husband picked up and moved to France, so she speaks from experience.

Maybe this is just how I roll—and perhaps true stability comes from someplace else.

Next came the physical remnants of the life I packed up…

Stuff

I live out of one suitcase, one carry-on bag, and a daypack I call ‘my office’ (laptop, etc.) By many digital nomad standards this is anything but ‘travelling light’, but considering I left behind a 10’x10’ storage unit crammed to the rafters, it feels pretty minimal to me.

Of course, I already knew what would come next. Every time I roll up the door to the storage unit now, I let out a defeated sigh, grab an empty box, and start filling it with things to sell or donate. Not only am I done with paying a small fortune to stash it all, but most of it just doesn’t fit my life anymore.

I’m not aiming to empty it entirely on the next purge (so many tricky items!), but I’m headed in the right direction. Letting go isn’t always dramatic—sometimes it’s just one box of socks at a time. The mice seem much more attached to my old life than I am.

Then there’s the smaller-scale—yet somehow more annoying—version of stuff-ditching that happens every time I pull up stakes within Mexico: clothes, spices, hair products. Yet another bottle of imported balsamic glaze, pricey avocado oil, Maille old-fashioned mustard. Things that bring me joy, comfort, or familiarity when my boots are on the ground, but just aren’t practical to haul around the country. It’s the weighty flotsam and jetsam of a nomadic life, perpetually repurchased. I feel like the trail of breadcrumbs I’ve left behind should be visible on Google Earth. A friend calls it “the cost of doing business.”

But divesting myself of material things has been child’s play compared to letting go of…

Relationships

Didn’t see this one coming. But people change. Circumstances and perspectives change. I’ve changed. In some cases, that has meant drawing new boundaries (so hard!) and stepping back from relationships that weren’t healthy for me. Other times, it meant discovering that people I loved and counted on had stepped back from me. Ouch.

We don’t always get to choose what we let go of. There’s no storage unit for this one. No piles I can label “sell” or “donate”, and nothing remotely interesting for the mice to nest in. I just have to believe it’s all making room for people and experiences (not more things!) that are new, fresh, and more aligned with who I am today.

Another one I didn’t see coming was having to let go of…

Seasons

You don’t realize how much the changing seasons keep you oriented to what month it is until you don’t have them anymore. In Canada, snow-melting showers mean it’s April. The first time you cautiously step out in flip-flops and a tee, you know it’s May or June and summer’s loading. Cozy sweater weather and flame-orange maple leaves? Hola, October.

Mexico—at least the parts I’ve explored—has only two settings: dry and rainy. No leaves crunching underfoot to signal autumn; no freakishly warm day in late winter to tease that spring is coming. And the traditional markers that do exist here, like Christmas aisles exploding, are no help, because that happens in September.

Time can get slippery this way.  

While I do miss autumn in Canada, I will never not be amused at seeing eaves troughs trimmed with icicle lights, sparkling under the merciless Mexican sun.

There’s loads more I’ve had to let go of: Solid infrastructure. Streamlined government processes. What ‘on time’ means. Potable tap water, refrigerated eggs, the expectation that canned goods won’t be tossed on top of said eggs in my grocery bag (you don’t bag your own groceries in Mexico.) The list is endless. But this crazy, unpredictable, seat-of-my-pants journey has also taught me that some things are worth holding onto for dear life:

Faith in myself. Trust in my gut (never wrong!) My resourcefulness. My ability to land on my feet, even as AI and shifts in the advertising industry flip the script on my career. This is one of the hardest ones to not lose my grip on. I do not say ‘hope’ because hope has a graspy, ‘fingers crossed’ undertone that for me lacks the staying power and resonance of faith. Neither faith nor hope will keep a roof over my head, but one of them pushes me to keep striving to find ways to.

Standards—for the kind of life I want, even if it looks unstructured from the outside, and often feels messy and uncertain on the inside.

Insatiable curiosity. My willingness and openness to ask, explore, learn, do, discover, taste, try. I don’t know why I’ve always had this, or where it might bring me one day. I only know it feels like a rare treasure.

A sense of wonder. I will not sacrifice my capacity to be moved—even when things are loud, late, broken, incomprehensible, missing, unfamiliar, or just plain *#&!@?*ed. I’m not going to stop being mesmerized by the ocean just because the Wi-Fi is being glitchy or the ATM is empty again.

So, aquí estoy. Here I am. Rolling into year four. Still barefoot. Still learning. Still letting go of things I once might have thought were forever, and gripping tighter to the ones I hadn’t realized would matter so much. Understanding that there will always be high tides and low tides, reshaping the landscape and keeping me nimble.

I don’t have a grander plan. But I’m going to heed the little voice (again, never wrong!) telling me to keep trusting that with every leap, the net will appear.

The friend who drove me to the airport once quipped, “I’ve never met anyone with a bigger horseshoe up their @ss than you. Things always work out for you!” Here’s hoping she’s right.

For now, tacos and toes in the sand are enough. Definitely not letting go of those.