This piece was written by one of our dear readers—a woman with something real to say. Each month, we handpick the best submissions for Dear Reader because we’re after that PROVOKED bite: truth, intelligence, and heart. These stories come from women our age—women who’ve lived enough to know better and still care enough to tell it anyway. Because being seen and heard matters. Because storytelling is how we stitch ourselves to one another. And because when one woman speaks her truth, another finally recognizes her own. — Susan Dabbar, Editor-in-Chief

Six suitcases, a 75-year-old mother, and a one-way move to Mexico. 

I was living in Washington, D.C., when I called my aunt in Los Angeles to tell her I was moving to Mexico. She thought I was crazy.

“What are you going to do with your 75-year-old mother?”

I knew I had more time behind me than I had in front of me, and the urgency had become clear: it was now or never. After everything I’d experienced, I wanted the freedom to create something entirely different.

My original plan was to move to Albuquerque, New Mexico, but while researching on YouTube, the algorithm led me to Mérida, Mexico, the capital of Yucatán. I spent two weeks watching videos about everyday life there and discovered a place that offered exactly what I was looking for: peace, natural food, affordable living, less violence, a warm climate, and walkable neighborhoods.

I visited Mérida first. The thing I noticed immediately was the heat and humidity, but neither swayed my decision. I tasted the delicious local food, ate a marquesita, and found fresh fruit that had been hard to find where I lived. What sold me immediately were the people. The locals were kind and hardworking, and I felt accepted. After looking at homes with a realtor, I put a small down payment on a four-bedroom, three-bathroom house with large front and back yards, and returned to Washington, D.C. for my mother.

As an only child, I knew there was no one else to help my mother navigate what came next, but she had to make her own decision. When I asked if she wanted to come with me, she chose to move. I was excited that she could finally experience the life abroad we’d talked about for years. 

Some people were in disbelief. How could I make such a big decision? I decided to let my actions answer those questions: Watch me. 

I sold my car and most of my belongings. I opened my apartment to neighbors, who came through buying things. I made multiple trips to the Salvation Army and Goodwill. The things I didn’t sell, I left behind. I placed what remained neatly in the living room and simply walked away.

I gave my neighbor the key to our old apartment and told her to open the door the next morning so the other neighbors could come in and see what they could use. We agreed that after two days, she would turn the spare key in to the management office.

On the day I left, I got out of bed and went to the airport, leaving the mattress, headboard, and sheets behind. My mother left her twin bed behind too. We had six suitcases, and I had to pay an extra baggage fee. I didn’t mind paying for it. 

It was my ticket to freedom.

I was fortunate to be raised by a woman who had traveled to different countries in college. Looking back, I realize my desire to experience life beyond the familiar began long before I booked that flight. As a child, I studied old photographs she took while traveling to Paris, Switzerland, and Denmark. I was fascinated by her adventures and imagined having experiences of my own. I had no idea then how much those photographs would influence the decisions I would make about my life, or that decades later, my mother would join me on an adventure. In Mexico, she built relationships and found a community of women over 60, including a new friend who was 90 years old.

If you review your life, how many deaths and rebirths have you lived? I’ve been a decision-maker, a daughter, and now a caregiver. After nearly 20 years in corporate America, I was laid off just six months after moving to North Carolina. Later, I experienced homelessness and realized that, despite years of dedication, I was still just another personnel number in a system. Those experiences changed how I approached my future. I promised myself I would never again willingly give that much authority over my life to someone else.  

So, is it really bravery? Or is it consistency? Is it rearranging your life to suit who you are now or who you are becoming? My mom taught me: If you have breath in your body, you can change anything.

Making hard decisions isn’t bravery to me. 

It means having a life.