Twenty-one years ago, I faced the difficult decision to move from Spain to the United States with my 3-year-old daughter and 4-month-old baby to follow my then-husband, who had lost his job, in pursuit of a new position in Florida.
I was being asked to leave behind my family, friends, and an established writing career. I was to start over at 41, with no connections, no guarantees, and an already shaky marriage.
My family thought it was a terrible idea, yet my husband’s family felt it was a great opportunity. So, after some soul-searching and many promises of a better life in Florida, I decided to uproot my kids and take the chance.
As I boarded the plane to meet my children’s father (he had come to the US ahead of us), I had mixed feelings: I could feel the excitement of my eldest to see her dad again, but I also feared the unknown. I kept asking myself whether it was really possible that we could fix our marriage and thrive in a different country.
My worst fear came true
Going from living in a penthouse in the old part of Sevilla, where I could walk to just about everywhere, to being cooped up in a tiny apartment in a gated community in suburban Florida, where I needed a car to go anywhere, was brutal to my nervous system.
I felt trapped in suburbia without my own car. And with a history of major depressive disorder, I started having panic attacks and depressive episodes. One day, while driving my children to find a preschool for my eldest, I had to pull over to sob.
A few months later, my husband lost the job we had moved to Florida for. And so began one of the most difficult periods of our lives.
In four years, we moved several times within Florida, always because of his new jobs. I found work freelancing for newspapers and magazines and wrote more books for publishers in Spain. But our relationship was always floundering.
As our marriage crumbled, we took a time-out under the same roof. We went to marriage counseling, enrolled in self-improvement seminars, and so on. Trust, respect, and admiration had been completely lost, and in 2008, when the Great Recession hit, we had no money, no savings, and no jobs.
I walked away from my husband with my laptop, my books, joint custody of our children, and the huge regret of having moved so far away from my family and friends. But I stayed in Florida, because I didn’t want my children to be far from their father. From one day to the next, I found myself a single mother on food stamps.
I met the love of my life
Nearly a year after separating, 16 years ago, I met the love of my life. We had many similarities: we were both newly single, bilingual and bicultural, and had children of a similar age. We were writers focused on creating a better life for our kids and ourselves. The best part was that neither of us had given up on love despite the tough times we’d lived through.
For nearly two years, we dated long-distance, spending only weekends and holidays together. One of us would drive two hours to meet the other, sometimes with the children, and when the kids were with our respective former spouses, we met alone.
We were both trying to rebuild ourselves personally and professionally, and together we made a great team. I once again moved for love, but this time with no regrets. Four years later, we married at sunset on the beach, surrounded by our children and close family.
Our kids are all in their 20s now, and we’ve been through the highest highs as well as some pretty rough times. But our relationship was never in question. We’ve cheered each other on and thrived together.
Whenever I think of past regrets and how I shouldn’t have moved to the US 21 years ago with my ex, I realize I would have missed out on finding true love. And I would never have built the stable and dependable family I always wanted.
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