Looking back, I can’t pinpoint the moment—or even the reason—we decided to walk away from the life we had built and start something new. There wasn’t a single conversation or a lightning-bolt realization. It just started unraveling, slowly and quietly, like a thread being pulled from the edge of a sweater.
Our life, back then, felt both chaotic and boring at the same time – ike we were constantly busy but somehow standing still. And underneath it all was this deep desire to give you boys something more – not more stuff or more activities – but more life. I think that’s pretty common for parents, to want to give their kids what they didn’t have. But we weren’t chasing bigger houses or better toys or a longer list of sports teams. What we wanted for you was harder to define: things like courage, curiosity, a sense of adventure. We wanted you to grow up with stories worth telling and experiences that stretched you.
But wanting that and choosing it are two very different things. Leaving the familiar—leaving normal—is hard, especially when you’re not sure what’s on the other side. We wrestled with what our choices would mean for you. Every parenting path has consequences—whether you stay married or get divorced, live near family or far away, put down roots or chase new horizons. Each decision carries weight. And what’s hardest is knowing that for every path you take, there’s another one you’ll never see the ending of.
So when we asked ourselves: Do we stay in North Carolina or move to a new country? We knew it wasn’t just about geography. It was about who we might all become, and what we might miss. We knew it would shape you in ways we could never fully understand. And we accepted that we’d never be able to measure one life against the one we didn’t choose.
During that time, I wrote a lot—journals, emails to friends and family, even notes to Dad. I was trying to make sense of it all, but that was hard. We were scattered in our thinking, overwhelmed by questions with no clear answers. We didn’t know how to leave the life we’d made, only that we needed to. It felt like being chased by something invisible, yet somehow rooted in place. A desperate urge for change tangled up with complete inertia. It’s a strange emotion—urgent and paralyzing all at once. We built a life we didn’t want, felt guilty for not appreciating it and desperately wanted something different for the both of you boys. Different…but not sure what or how or even why.
It’s hard to explain exactly how it felt – and in ways I am sure it felt different for each of us.
Look, it’s not like our lives were awful. We had a beautiful house, our health, and we always did things together. You both had friends – so did Dad and I. You were involved in sports and the community and saw your extended family often. We worked hard and played when we could.
But after a while, the days just started to blur. One day floated into the next, and nothing really stood out. One Christmas looked like the last and even birthdays or anniversaries all blurred together.
When we looked back, the moments that meant the most – the ones we actually remembered – those were the times we traveled, tried something new, or stepped outside the routine.
So we started asking ourselves: What if we could live like that more often? What if our life was full of new experiences and not just vacations and holidays – but as a way of being?
We didn’t have all the answers. We just knew we wanted a life worth remembering.
As I said before, back then I was writing a lot (in between carpools and cutting crusts off sandwiches), and I had this half-brained idea that maybe, just maybe – I could actually make a living at it. As you know, I never did. But at the time, I did enter a few writing contests.
I recently stumbled across one of those submissions—the one I wrote right before we actually left. The contest theme was something deep and noble, like “the stressors of parenthood” or “coping with parenting in the modern age.” They required it to be a certain length and have a “comic spirit.” For some reason, this one inspired me. So I wrote something, sent it off, and crossed my fingers.
I didn’t win. It didn’t get published. No one even sent a “thanks but no thanks” email.
But now, writing this blog for you both, I came across the entry again. The date on it was about six months before we packed up and left it all behind—and reading it now, it really seems to capture (hopefully with humor) where our heads were at, parenting-wise, during that weird, wild in-between time.
So I figured: screw it. It’s getting published now. Because even if the contest judges didn’t want it, maybe you do. Or at least you’ll pretend to, just so I’ll stop talking about it.
I QUIT THE GAME
After years of blood, sweat, glitter, and cupcake mix, I’m hanging up my cleats. That’s right—I’m officially retiring from the world’s most relentless, passive-aggressively cutthroat sport: Mompetition.
You know the one. No clear rules, endless overtime, and the scoreboard is a mystery. But the players? Oh, they’re vicious. And very into monograms.
I was once a proud rookie. Bright-eyed, clipboard in hand, ready to join the ranks. I threw double birthday parties, monogrammed everything that held still long enough (blankets, robes, backpacks—you name it), and baked cupcakes (okay, from a box, but still). I was in the game.
But I’ve seen the top-tier players. The ones who schedule playdates six months in advance and pack diaper bags that double as mobile triage units. Their beach bags have portraits of their kids on them—in matching swimsuits. Their Christmas shopping is done in July. I was never destined for the playoffs.
My breaking point? March. St. Patrick’s Day Eve (yes, that’s now a thing). My boys come home hyped about some new tradition where a leprechaun breaks into your home, trashes it (adorably), bends spoons (yes, for real) and leaves candy and gold in your bed. Apparently, this is standard play. How did I miss the memo?
Cue panic mode. We bent spoons, whispered goodnights, and I sprinted to the store, mumbling “leprechaun sabotage” under my breath. No gold coins in sight—but I spotted gold-wrapped Hershey’s Kisses and yelled “TOUCHDOWN” in the candy aisle. Back home, I tipped chairs, flung open drawers, staged a mischievous crime scene, and sacrificed a perfectly good gold chain to complete the illusion. I was in it to win it.
Game day morning? The kids were thrilled! Victory! But then… they went to school. I asked eagerly how their friends liked the leprechaun visit. My oldest shrugged, “We were busy with other Irish celebrations.” Wait. What other celebrations?
Turns out, Michael’s mom brought green cupcakes for decorating. Katie’s mom handed out real four-leaf clovers (how?!). Josh’s mom coordinated a lunchtime performance of twenty Irish dancers while they ate authentic Irish stew. From Peter’s mom. Of course. Meanwhile, my leprechaun was tipping over dining chairs like a drunk raccoon.
Later, I asked my youngest about our crafty little leprechaun. He blinked and asked, “What leprechaun?”
Oof. That’s a fumble.
Fast-forward. My youngest loses a tooth. I get ready for Tooth Fairy duty, feeling confident. Then I call a friend. Big mistake. She casually asks, “Did you do the tooth journal?”
The what now?
Apparently, you’re supposed to have a journal—with glitter glue, stencils, stickers, and calligraphy—to document each tooth’s journey. Some moms even do poems. POEMS. I don’t even have a pen that works, let alone an inkwell and quill.
Then she asks, “What are you going to write in the letter?”
LETTER?!
I panicked. Opened drawers. Dug through art supplies I didn’t own. Considered hot-wiring the craft store. But just as I was about to crumble under glitter pressure, a voice—divine or delusional—whispered, “Quit the game.”
So I did. I dropped a dollar under the pillow and walked away from the glitter, the guilt, and the game.
Turns out, I’m not a terrible mom. I’m just a terrible Mompetitor. And that’s okay.
So here it is: my official retirement. My jersey is available, slightly used, probably monogrammed. Give it to someone with a Cricut machine and a deep love of Pinterest.
As for me? I’m free. Retirement is glorious.
In hindsight, maybe I managed to capture a piece – just a tiny piece – of the chaos in that absurd world of mompetition…that strange, silent rivalry that bubbles up in certain middle-class circles. As ridiculous as it sounds, rereading those stories now, I see it wasn’t just about leprechauns and glitter glue. It was about trying to keep up with a life that no longer fit. I wanted to focus less on bending spoons or bedazzling tooth fairy letters, and more on shaping you both in real, meaningful ways.
Maybe that’s what finally pushed us to stop running in place and just… quit. The want for something more for both of you.
So, even though this first entry of the blog was meant to explain why we left, the truth is – now that I’m writing and reflecting – don’t think I can give you a single, tidy answer.
Because we didn’t have one.
There wasn’t just one reason.
It was a million little things. A spiral of reasons, dreams, wants, wishes, and questions, all tangled up together.
And honestly? I’m not even sure your dad and I fully understood it at the time and maybe not even now.
We just knew something had to change – and, somehow, staying put felt harder than leaping into the unknown.
4inworld - Quitting Suburban Life for the Unknown 
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