Ma and Pop drove us to the airport in the van. Saying goodbye was sad, scary, beautiful, and exciting—all at once. To give you a quick visual: we were carrying eight bags total. I had a small backpack—not a purse, but a carry-on thingy stuffed with “mom stuff.” Dad (the responsible one) had his camera bag—his expensive new camera plus all our documents and passports.
Then came the four HUGE backpacks, the result of what felt like seven million trial runs of buying, returning, and practicing how to pack them. We forgot one essential part though…weather any of us could actually carry them any amount of distance…spoiler – two of us could not!
And finally, two roller bags: one filled with a ridiculous amount of school supplies and two laptops; the other packed with the PS3 (because obviously we had to bring that) and some toys.
We flew out of Charlotte to Munich on Lufthansa, and – thanks to my flying anxiety (isn’t that funny?) and both Dad’s and my compulsive need to be early – we arrived at the airport a solid four hours before departure. That gave me and dad just enough time for a few “liquid courage” cocktails and just long enough for the two of you to become terribly bored. But we all hung in there and finally got on the plane to Munich.
While on the long flight to Germany, two things of consequence happened.
First, we were seated in a four-seat row in the middle section of the plane, right behind a supermodel-type mom, her jacked-up, gym-advertisement of a husband, and their painfully adorable kids—who looked about the same age as you two.
They were the glossy, airbrushed after photo to our messy, rumpled before—especially after an unnecessarily long, mind-numbing four-hour sit at the Charlotte airport.
Unlike us, this perfect little foursome had perfectly pressed outfits, coordinated shoes, and probably some idyllic one-week European getaway ahead of them.
When Ms. Perfect reclined her seat straight into my personal space, I nearly lost it. Actually—scratch that—I did lose it. Full-on panic attack. Or something that felt a hell of a lot like one.
Because the truth is, I was already on the edge.
There we were, looking like a family on vacation—but we weren’t. We had just thrown a grenade into our lives and had no idea what the fallout would look like.
Would Ms. Perfect do that? I bet not. I bet she has ballet and soccer enrollment forms filled out in July. I bet her kids’ bedrooms are hand-painted by local artisans. I bet she owns matching luggage and isn’t checking mismatched backpacks stuffed with her entire life’s possessions.
Oh. My. God.
What are we doing?
Why aren’t we just going on a normal one-week vacation like them? Why are we being so dramatic? So what if suburban life was boring—did we really need to nuke the whole thing?
My mind was spinning.
Here we were, on this fucking plane with our two sweet boys, about to do something wildly irrational—uprooting their entire lives, flying across the ocean with no return ticket, no real plan, no backup, no safety net.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Stop thinking so much.
We do have a plan. Sort of. A little. Okay, a loosely defined “Plan B” involving a savings account and the idea that we could always come back and start over in the States if this blew up in our faces.
Still. This road we were on—it was unknown. Uncharted. And terrifying.
We didn’t have visas. We didn’t speak the language. We didn’t know a soul where we were going. Was this apartment okay? Does Italy even have Blonde hair dye? (seriously – I had that thought!)
We had you two.
And a budget that, let’s just say, wasn’t exactly “expat influencer” material.
At that moment, we had grossed a grand total of $250 from the website. Three to four orders a day. And yes, that’s three to four, not thirty-four.
It was pitiful.
And yet—we were doing this.
Whatever this turned out to be.
We didn’t have a roadmap for our lives.
Well—we did have a roadmap… but it was for our old life.
The one where you get married, buy a house, land “real” jobs, have kids, paint their nurseries in tasteful pastels, enroll them in T-ball, teach them to ride bikes, take family photos at golden hour… and eventually wave goodbye as they head off to college.
That life was fine.
Safe.
Predictable. Known.
But it also felt… soul-numbing.
That life was probably very similar to Ms. Perfect’s family life…but it wasn’t ours any longer!
So there we were: four mismatched backpacks, two battered carry-ons, and literally everything else we owned jammed into the belly of a Lufthansa jet.
And me? Quietly unraveling in seat 42E.
Whispering to myself like a broken record:
There’s still Plan B. We can still go back. We don’t have to do this. This is insane.
So… Ms. Perfect reclining into my already limited life space felt weirdly symbolic.
Like she wasn’t just taking up a few extra inches of legroom—she was invading my entire unraveling mental state. I know this may sound crazy, but it was as if her perfectly toned backrest was pressing directly into my chaotic, crumbling, what-the-hell-are-we-doing energy.
Her perfection was literally encroaching on my shattered, nutty little life bubble.
I mean, who leans back that far on a transatlantic flight when the woman behind you is clearly vibrating with existential dread?
Just when I felt like I couldn’t take it anymore—cramped, anxious, teetering on the edge – H, you leaned over, saw the look on my face, and quietly offered to switch seats with me. That tiny gesture? Lifesaving. Absolutely. Life. Saving.
I exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
H, you’ve always had this gift—this talent—whatever you want to call it. Even when you were little, you could read a room. You could sense when someone needed something, even if they didn’t say a word.
I could never fool you. I’d try to pretend everything was fine when I was upset, but you always knew.
And on that plane, you saw that your mom was struggling—and without fanfare or fuss, you stepped in to help. That moment—your kindness, your calm—has stayed with me ever since.
It reminded me that we were in this together. That even in the chaos, even when I felt like I was falling apart, I wasn’t alone. I had help.
That’s maybe a big weight to put on a little kid—but you carried it with grace. And you saved your mom from a full-blown meltdown/crazed-lunatic episode.
So… thank you for that.
The Currency Of The Tooth Fairy
The next couple of hours of the flight, for me, was mostly watching the two of you alternate between sleep, playing video games, and watching cartoons on the seat-back screens—while I tried to drink enough vodka to numb my anxiety.
About halfway through, the second thing happened.
H, you lost a tooth and you turned to me and said proudly, “Mom, look! It finally came out.” The ordinariness of that moment felt strangely welcoming. I slipped into the airplane bathroom, wet a tissue for the new little gap in his mouth, then wrapped the tiny tooth in another tissue and tucked it into my pocket.
I didn’t even have a purse anymore—those had all been sold or donated.
Back in my seat, I started obsessing over logistics that had nothing to do with our massive life upheaval:
How was I going to manage a Tooth Fairy visit in a Rome hotel room?
Would she pay in euros or dollars?
All I had were a few crumpled ones buried somewhere in the roller bag overhead. We were planning to use a debit card once we landed.
Did we even bring any euros?
Maybe we had leftovers from that anniversary trip… or maybe we spent them all on wine and gelato.
This stupid tooth situation was hijacking my brain.
Would H notice if he got a dollar under his pillow in Italy?
Would a euro feel more legit?
And wait—was it even nighttime right now? Would the Tooth Fairy show up during a nap? Should I put the tooth under his pillow on the plane while he slept?
Oh my God! Was I seriously about to blow the Tooth Fairy thing before we even got to Rome?
Was this it? The moment I ruined childhood magic at 30,000 feet? Was I making him grow up too fast—dragging him across an ocean with no clear plan, uprooting his childhood, only to ruin it before we even landed!
I was spiraling again—about something that wasn’t really what this was about. Again.
But that’s the thing. The tooth wasn’t the issue. Just like Ms. Perfect wasn’t the issue. The tooth was just the one tiny, absurdly normal moment trying to ground me while the rest of our life was being tossed into the unknown. I took a few deep breaths and settled on a European payout tonight at the hotel. There…that decision was easy. Geez!
By the time we landed in Munich, we were bleary-eyed but full-bellied (thanks to the copious amount of food in Lufthansa main cabin) and unscathed, other than H being short one tooth.
As we deplaned, I glanced at Ms. Perfect one last time. She and her kids still looked like they’d just stepped out of a salon—refreshed, polished, effortless. Not even sure how that was possible!! An eight hour flight and this family didn’t even have a wrinkle on their pricey clothes! And us? Well… we were a rumpled mess of eight hours in coach: puffy-eyed, crinkled, dragging ourselves forward.
But right then, I resolved to stop the ridiculous comparison.
I don’t know if it was exhaustion or the couple hour power nap I got near the end of the flight, but I decided to be sane – at least for now.
We were good. We got this. We were on our way to a life of adventure, and I bet her kid wouldn’t have switched seats with her, and I bet he didn’t have a cool story of losing a tooth on a plane. It didn’t matter, I needed to stop the comparison. We are who we are. And no matter how unkempt we looked in the moment, this was going to be the best thing we ever did for our kids. Right?
The pendulum of doubt would swing again—often, especially in the beginning—but for now, for a brief moment, it had landed on hope.
Zombie Shuffle Through Munich
We were all running on 24 hours without any real sleep as we slogged through the Munich airport. Everyone was tired, grumpy, and just felt… gross. You guys felt dragged and pulled by us and were arguing. We finally made our way to what we thought was the right gate – only to realize, minutes before boarding, that we were completely wrong. Cue full-on airport sprint to the correct gate and spiked anxiety!
Dad was stressed and so tired. You kids were exhausted and bickering. And me? Shocking! I cracked—again. The actually doing it part—the boarding planes, dragging luggage, pushing through jet lag is stressfull enough – but then with our situation it was crazy scary. And so, once again – it hit me with a tidal wave of anxiety.
Right there at the gate, I had a mini meltdown. Full-blown doubt. Sweating. Crying. The ever-familiar voice in my head screaming: Are we total idiots? Is this even worth it? Look at your beautiful boys so eager – are you fucking them up forever? We don’t even know how to get to a gate properly, how are we going to raise kids in a foreign country?
It must’ve been a sight—this woman with two kids, a calming, somewhat zombie-like husband lugging an overstuffed backpack, trying to console the clearly unhinged lady who was absolutely unraveling in the middle of the Rome connection.
I probably looked like a warning to others: “This is what happens when you give up stability and chase your dreams, kids.”
People were breezing past us, headed toward vacation selfies and pasta-filled evenings, and there I was—sweaty, sleep-deprived, clutching a child’s tooth in my pocket and questioning every life decision we’d ever made.
Dad, calm and steady as always, just like he always has been, hugged me and reminded me that it was all going to be okay. And if it wasn’t? Well, then we’d just treat it like a vacation. Not a life change. Just a trip.
It took me a minute to stop my crying, but we started walking toward the gate. Dad kept holding my hand like a lifeline.
The gate agent even stopped us and asked if I was going to be okay. I told her I would be. It felt like a lie.
Dad gave my hand a reassuring squeeze—a silent, “I got you. I got us.”
With that, I took a deep breath and reminded myself:
We are literally about to board a plane to ROME.
Rome. For crying out loud.
Like—seriously, stop being a whiny little bitch and pull your shit together. .
I did.
Mostly.
Rome-Bound
Dad and H sat together for the short flight to Rome. H promptly passed out while Dad watched some tv. Q and I sat next to a kind older woman from Greensboro, NC, traveling to Rome with her church group. As the plane was boarding we exchanged pleasantries and she started talking. A lot. She told me about her five grown children and an RV trip she once took with them, and how she was going to go to the Vatican and that she had studied art history, on her own not formally and —though I’m sure there was more to her story and she really wanted to tell me all about it. I can’t say I know the ending because, unfortunately, Q and I both passed out right in front of her face, while she was still talking.
I woke up three or four times during the 90-minute flight to find Q’s leg draped across the woman’s lap, his head drooling on her arm, or some other form of accidental invasion. I genuinely felt bad for her—she was sweet and patient—but at that point, my need for sleep outweighed her comfort.
So if you’re out there, kind woman from Greensboro who self-taught art history and got stuck next to a wiggly little jet-lagged tornado: I’m sorry. And I truly hope Rome treated you better than Q did.
A quick few pics of what your life was like right before the move to Italy.
4inworld - Quitting Suburban Life for the Unknown 
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