I never used to know what kind of pizza I liked. A small but strangely telling detail about my life.
I was always the adult ordering for me and my four sons — usually an extra-large cheese, maybe pepperoni if I felt wild. Economical crowd-pleasers. Perfect for our family, and for a single mom who didn’t have the time to think about her own preferences.
Maybe that’s part of why I moved to Europe alone after my youngest left for college. I wanted to figure out what I liked on my pizza.
Of course, it was more than that. I’d romanticized long stretches in Europe for years. I used to dream about Italy and France when I was deep in the trenches of motherhood, when a trip to the grocery store felt like an expedition, and the school parking lot was as far as I ever got.
Europe felt impossibly distant from our small town. At that point in my life, even getting to the airport felt too far.
This story is part of our Adult Gap Year series, which highlights stories from people who have taken extended breaks to reset, explore, and reimagine their lives.
- I spent 22 years as a military wife. After our divorce, I finally lived the dream we’d planned together.
- I couldn’t afford to take a gap year in college. So at 53, I retired early and did exactly that.
But when the time came, as afraid as I was to go, I was more afraid of staying put — of waiting for my kids to visit so I could feel like a person again.
Fleeing the nest I’d built
Determined not to let fear stop me, I booked my first flight to Rome with my tax return. I packed my laptop so I could work remotely, a blessing that meant I could rent a place of my own.
First, a tiny studio in the old town of Tivoli, just outside Rome. Then a month in Avignon in the south of France. Then Belfast in Northern Ireland. My choices were based almost entirely on friends’ recommendations and the cheapest monthly Airbnbs I could find. I knew so little about the world beyond our house in Canada. I just wanted to go and see.
For the next six months, I learned how to be a person in the world without my “mom” qualifier. I learned how to make friends on my own — not mom friends or work friends, but actual friends.
In Italy, I joined a local hiking group and met a woman who became my closest Italian friend. Every day we walked and translated for each other until my Italian improved. Another shock: learning a new language in middle age.
I felt foolish and more like myself at the same time.
Becoming more expansive and expressive
I walked everywhere. I learned how to be quiet inside — riding trains, gazing out the windows, wandering through museums, and drinking wine.
In the mornings, I took my coffee to the local courtyard to watch kids play soccer, women fill water at the fountain, and men play bocce. I embraced every cliché without a hint of embarrassment.
I missed my kids, enough that I considered flying home at least a dozen times. But missing them somewhere new felt easier than missing them in our small town. Back home, I felt left behind. Leaving for my own adventure made me feel like I was choosing myself again.
When I left Italy for Avignon, something softened. I already spoke a little French, which helped, and the city itself was easy to navigate. Each café and tiny shop felt like a gentle invitation.
I met empty-nester moms everywhere — women who linked arms on their way to lunch and insisted I come along. They were building new lives while keeping their children at the center of their attention. I recognized myself in them.
That’s what I learned in those six months: I could build a new life, return to an old version of myself, and still carry my mother-ness with me. I could be all of those people at once. I could still grow.
In Belfast, I wrote. I hiked Cave Hill with new friends and often by myself. I took a bus to the Giant’s Causeway and ate fish chowder by the sea.
Each day I chose something new and something familiar — yoga classes in the Cathedral Quarter, music nights at the Sunflower Pub, a book by the fire in White’s Tavern on Sunday afternoons.
And I wrote and wrote and wrote — an entire book — because finally I had the time and the quiet to write one. Because I felt like I was stepping into my own life for the first time in a long time.
At the end of my trip, I flew my sons over for a two-week visit. We went back to Rome, and I showed them everything — the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, all the obvious highlights. But more than that, I introduced them to the woman I’d become. A mom, yes, but also a friend, a hiker, a writer.
And a lover of all kinds of pizza.
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