And he… would keep climbing.
But this time, is going to be different for me.
This time I’m the one committed to taking the straight path—even if my dream isn’t as crystal clear as his has always been.
Once this grant is established—staffed, stabilized, with the right systems in place—Iamgoing to live in France for a year. I’ll offer support remotely if I have to. Write in cafés. Chase stories instead of deadlines.
The timing won’t be easy. I know that. But part of the reason I applied for this grant, was so I could offer the library systems something bigger than myself. And, sure, I’m the grantwriter, but I work with an whole team of passionate people.
I’ve spent my whole life shelving plans for everyone else.
But this one? It’s mine.
Whether Carter agrees or not, my intentions are set. And for once, I’m not asking permission.
The house is under contract. Offer pending financing. I’ve booked a tiny villa in Annecy-le-Vieux—the same town Spencer had mentioned, though I hadn’t realized it until I went searching for places and the name jumped out at me.
My villa will be barely big enough to stretch in, but it has a balcony and a window box and a little clawfoot tub. I’m selling off most of my furniture at the garage sale. The rest will go into storage for now.
With my savings and the proceeds of the house sale, I’ll be able to live at least six months without work, longer if I stretch it. But I also have three freelance clients already lined up. Some ghostwriting, some editing. Enough to keep the lights on while I get my bearings.
Things are in motion.
Starting to line up.
Which is why I can’t quite figure out why I’ve had an anxious stomach every day this week.
Today, Becca brought a crockpot into the staff room—a fragrant pot roast - and the second the lid came off, the smell hit me like a wave. Rich. Heavy. Overwhelming.
I barely made it to the bathroom.
As I rinsed my mouth at the sink, I told myself it was stress.
Probably was.
The last few weeks have been nonstop. The grant. The house sale. The details of the move.
But I know it’s more than that.
It’s also fear.
A deep, knotted, buried fear of actually doing this.
Leaving.
Starting over.
Living the life I said I wanted.
Maybe this is my gut saying:Are you serious? Are you ready to do this?
And the answer is: Yes. I am.
I’m damn well committed.
And I won’t let fear—physical, emotional, or otherwise—stall my plans again.
Feel the fear and do it anyway.
