My life had gotten quiet, easy and certain. So... I blew it up. I sold my home of nearly two decades, sold or gave away 90% of its contents and sold my car, which had been driven well over 400,000 kilometres. All so I could have a new beginning in a new place —a new continent, actually. When people asked me why, I told them, “I want a new chapter.”

Phantom pain

It may be overly dramatic to liken this change to an explosion. For one thing, it implies that there was wreckage, and there wasn’t. I left dear friends behind in and around Vancouver, but I expect to see them all again. I said goodbye with the ease of someone ready for change. I felt deep sadness only at the thought of leaving the last place my husband and I lived together before he passed. That emotional pain surged in the final weeks before the move, but I experienced it as a kind of phantom pain. I knew it was not caused by moving across the ocean, nor would it be cured by staying.

The harder part of leaving was discarding my things. As a professional organizer who has spent a fair amount of time thinking about stuff, and as someone who leans towards minimalism, it wasn’t letting go that was the issue. Rather, it was the pressure of finding new homes for everything in the short  time between selling the house and moving out. I was overjoyed to discover that posting a sign inviting my neighbours to take anything from a pile in front of my house was a quick and easy way to move volume.

It did not start with a single decisive moment followed by 100% commitment to the idea. Instead, it began with just entertaining the possibility and allowing myself to consider a move with no deadline for a decision.

Testing the waters

All in all, I spent about a year working towards my move. It did not start with a single decisive moment followed by 100% commitment to the idea. Instead, it began with just entertaining the possibility and allowing myself to consider a move with no deadline for a decision. When I told  a friend I was thinking about moving to Europe if my daughter and her Dutch spouse relocated to the Netherlands, she asked, “shouldn’t you spend some time there before you make that decision?” 
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That simple nudge inspired me to spend a summer in the Netherlands battling mosquitos and odd combinations of vowels while studying Dutch in the countryside at zomerschool.  While I was a bit surprised to find myself tackling a new language at my age, I was heartened to find I was not the only person over sixty at school. The eclectic collection of students—strangers to each other at the start—sharing housing and classrooms lent the summer school a delightful camp vibe. I left summer school with several great new friends.

Additionally, I nearly melted my Museumkaart hitting a wondrous collection of big and little museums around Amsterdam. I never ran out of things to do. My trial Dutch summer was a resounding success, the best summer I could remember in years, but it wasn’t until a few months after I came home that I fully decided to move.

It seemed I was somehow cheating in life, getting unearned extra credit just because of my age.

“You’re so brave!”

Once I knew, I really enjoyed telling people my plans – finally, something exciting to report! Curiously, and nearly always, the news was met with comments on my bravery or courage. I asked my 30-something daughter, who was also moving from Canada to the Netherlands, if people frequently told her she was brave for moving. She said, “No,” and added that when she told them that her mother was also moving to the Netherlands, people unfailingly responded with awe. The different reactions to the same move made us laugh. It seemed I was somehow cheating in life, getting unearned extra credit just because of my age.
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Shifting perspectives

Taking on the big task, alone, of folding up my home and planning the move caused me to feel sorry for myself from time to time. My recurring thought was, I have to do this on my own. People agreed that it was a difficult job. I truly appreciated that no one pointed out that the pain from the sometimes-overwhelming task was self-inflicted. 

Interestingly, I came to see making difficult decisions alone as an advantage after speaking to my brother one day. He and his wife had sold their home and moved across the country just before I made my move; we sometimes compared notes on the process. When he described the stress of sorting through disagreements on their move, my thinking quickly flipped from I have to do this on my own to I get to do this on my own. I was amused again by the power of perspective.

Doing the “research”

I went on to tackle the rest of the process with greater patience than I have typically employed in the past. I did a lot of research – if you can call watching countless YouTube videos about moving to the Netherlands research. In the past, this kind of research has been both a coping mechanism and a superpower of mine. 

Years before the move, I dove deep into the internet to learn about Lewy Body Dementia when my husband was first diagnosed; for a time it seemed I knew more than some of the medical staff I encountered. This time, my deep dives on YouTube led me to the Dutch Immersion course, and a rental agent who would help me secure an apartment long distance in the highly challenging Dutch housing market. 

Those first days and weeks, I was awkward and slow; I felt like I had the dexterity of a baby elephant.

Fumbling forward

Then, almost suddenly, I was done – out of the house, on a plane, in my new apartment on a new continent. Those first days and weeks, I was awkward and slow; I felt like I had the dexterity of a baby elephant. While I knew never to walk on a bike path, I still made that mistake, and many more. Trips to a grocery store are weird when nothing is familiar – I lost good chunks of my time trying to determine, with limited Dutch, which containers had washing machine detergent, and which were fabric softener. And the banking— oh boy, not easy for a newbie—my struggles with getting a functioning debit card reduced me to tears one morning; I remembered how cathartic a good cry can be. And there have been many bright moments, like when the sweet young Dutch man insisted on paying for my second-hand hair dryer when neither my cash nor my Canadian credit card was accepted at the thrift shop. 

Now

As I finish my first three months in this new chapter, I feel relieved to be past several immigration hurdles, and proud to have secured a Dutch bank account and settled in my apartment. I don’t miss having a car or the house, and I think it's extremely cool that I can bike most anywhere I want to go. 

My folks would be so proud of me for this latest endeavour - they thoroughly embraced adventure and the concept of lifelong learning - I currently have an abundance of both. While it sometimes feels like too much, the feeling doesn’t last long; the sun comes up the next day and I am grateful for the change I made.

And so, at 63, I have a new life, in a new place, full of uncertainty, awkwardness and mistakes - lucky me.