In My Late 40s, I Sold My Home and Moved to the French Countryside

I was raised in New Jersey, but moved to the Netherlands in October 1997 to start a new life with the man who would eventually become my husband.

I was 19 and, aside from my family and education, there wasn’t much tying me down to the US. I was young, free, and fearless.

Reality hit hard during those first months, though: Even the rosy glow of love couldn’t have prepared me for the culture shock and loneliness. I wondered how I would ever learn the language, get an education, find a job, and feel at home.

Undeterred, I immediately began learning Dutch. By the following May, I was studying journalism at a local university. Over the next five years, I married my partner, had a daughter, and enrolled in a graduate program, where I earned a degree in Dutch Studies.

By 2008, I had become a Dutch citizen, launched a writing career, and bought a beautiful four-bedroom home with a glorious garden and dreamy kitchen in Almere, a city in the heart of the Netherlands. Three years later, I landed a dream remote job as a magazine editor.

I was settled, happy, and doing well. And then, I started thinking about leaving.

I fell head over heels for a small town in the French countryside

I still remember how I felt the first time I visited Duras, a village in southwest France surrounded by vineyards, prune orchards, and sunflower fields.

It was 2009, and I was staying with my husband and 9-year-old daughter at a little cottage a stone’s throw from the town center. I remember laying eyes on the Château de Duras — a majestic castle that has stood in the village since the 12th century — and feeling an immediate connection that I couldn’t quite explain.

In the years that followed, we spent at least two weeks there every summer, and each time we drove away, it felt like I was leaving a little piece of my heart behind.

My husband was just as captivated, too. Before long, we started asking ourselves the obvious question: What about actually living there?

By 2022, we’d started genuinely considering a move, but it felt daunting. Could I really start all over again, now, in my late 40s?

What about selling the home I had poured so much love into? And what about my daughter? At 23, she had been living independently for some time, but the thought of moving to another country was difficult to contemplate.

Still, I continued scrolling through French property listings — and one day, I spotted a house for sale in Duras. It was a stately maison de maître, with white shutters, stone floors, and even a wine cellar.

Two days later, we went on a whirlwind trip to France, hoping to put in an offer.

From the moment I walked in, I felt the same sense of connection that I did when I first set foot in Duras. I was so smitten that I barely registered how much work the house needed.

After our visit, my husband and I realized that making it habitable would cost at least twice the purchase price, not to mention the time and patience renovations would demand.

Disillusioned, we returned to the Netherlands, only to revisit our plans year after year. We viewed other properties in France, but every time, fear crept in, and we changed our minds at the last minute.

Finally, we took the plunge and put our Dutch home on the market

In the spring of this year, we decided to put our house on the market. We knew that if we kept coming up with excuses or waiting for the perfect moment, we might never make the move. Within seven days, it was sold.

As luck (or fate) would have it, we noticed a house for sale in Duras, right next door to the place we had loved so much in 2022. It had the same classic French beauty and character, and it was in excellent condition.

What really caught my attention was the kitchen: it reminded me so much of the one in our Dutch home, which I had found so difficult to leave behind.

We made an offer, and in September, we waved goodbye to our Dutch life and moved to France.

The transition so far hasn’t been easy. Nearly three decades in the Netherlands shaped me profoundly, and I miss the ease of city life.

Here in southwest France, life moves at a slower pace, which I’m still getting used to. Even though I have a basic level of French, speaking confidently and with ease is still a challenge.

But still, I wake up every morning and pinch myself. And then I do it again when we drive through the vineyard-covered hillsides, wander past the château, or open a bottle of Duras wine to enjoy with a lunch I’ve prepared using produce from the Monday market.

Moving to the Netherlands all those years ago taught me that I was stronger than I thought, and that wonderful things can happen when we step outside our comfort zone and embrace the unfamiliar.

Now, I’m realizing that it’s never too late to start all over again in pursuit of a long-held dream.