Letter #5: The Year We Stopped Waiting

My darling,

Let’s rewind the story just a little.

We’d found the house. Not just a house. Our house.

The one that made our hearts race a little faster. The one that quietly whispered, “You’re home,” before we’d even unpacked a suitcase.

The decision had been made. We were moving to France.

Well… in our hearts, we’d already moved. The practical side of life, however, had a very different opinion.

You see, the timing couldn’t really have been much worse. Now, there’s something you should know about Phil and me.

We’re not huge risk-takers. We don’t jump out of aeroplanes or make reckless decisions on a whim. But we do have one shared personality trait that has got us into all sorts of adventures over the years.

If we believe in something…
If we fall in love with an idea…
If we can truly picture the life we want…

We’re both very much in the “Well… let’s just do it” camp. It’s both one of our greatest strengths and, occasionally, one of our greatest financial weaknesses!

And that’s exactly where we found ourselves.

The sensible plan had always been to move to France in another year or two.

Instead, we’d come home from our house-hunting trip, put an offer on our dream home… and then immediately put our house in England on the market.

Completely sensible. Except it wasn’t.

Only a year earlier we’d signed a five-year lease on beautiful new offices for the business. Knowing France was somewhere on our horizon, we’d cleverly negotiated a two-year break clause.

We felt very pleased with ourselves at the time.

The only problem? We’d only been there for one year.

Which meant that if we moved now, we’d spend the next twelve months paying rent, service charges, business rates and all the other costs that come with an office… that nobody was actually using.

An empty building. A very expensive empty building.That was problem number one.

Problem number two was far more emotional.

Our youngest son was seventeen. Our eldest was twenty-seven and happily making his own way in the world, but our youngest had only just started his apprenticeship.

For years we’d imagined that we’d move to France when he turned eighteen.

His dream was to work on super yachts, traveling the world as crew, and once he reached eighteen we knew he’d probably disappear off on an adventure of his own.

That had always been our timeline. But now we were talking about leaving a whole year early.

As a mum, I carried an enormous amount of guilt.

Could I really leave him?
Would he feel abandoned?
Would I?

Even writing those words now, I can remember lying awake at night wondering whether I was being incredibly selfish.

Then there was problem number three.

Cars.
Honestly… who knew cars could become such a major life decision? We had two leased cars, both with around two years left on their contracts. The business had been doing well when we’d taken them out, and they’d been our little reward to ourselves.

We didn’t spend money on extravagant holidays.
We weren’t big drinkers.
We didn’t go out partying every weekend.
Our cars were our luxury.

Unfortunately, lease companies aren’t terribly interested in your dreams of moving to rural France.

We couldn’t simply take them with us because the leasing companies wouldn’t allow us to insure them permanently in France. French regulations also meant that after a relatively short period we’d need to start importing them, which simply wasn’t possible under the lease agreements.

So there we were.

Paying for cars we couldn’t really use.
Paying for an office we wouldn’t occupy.
Trying to figure out how not to break a mother’s heart.

If you were making a sensible list of reasons to delay… We had plenty.

The logical decision would have been to wait.

Another year. Possibly two.

Financially, it made complete sense. Emotionally, it probably did too.

But here’s the thing I’ve realised as I’ve got older. When you’re twenty-five, another year feels insignificant. When you’re fifty-six, and your husband is sixty-one, time starts to feel very different.

You become acutely aware that life isn’t waiting. Health isn’t guaranteed. Tomorrow isn’t promised. The years seem to pass faster than you ever imagined they would. We reached a point where waiting another year felt like wasting another year. We didn’t want to spend one more summer dreaming about the life we wanted when we already knew exactly where we wanted to be.

So we made what many people would probably call the irresponsible decision.

We handed one of the cars back early and absorbed the enormous financial loss.

We gave notice on our office and accepted we’d be paying for an empty building for another twelve months.

And somehow… The biggest worry of all quietly resolved itself.

After many long, heartfelt conversations, our youngest son sat us down and simply said, “Mum… please go.”

He had a wonderful girlfriend.
He’d passed his driving test.
He was building his own life.
Truthfully, he was hardly ever at home anyway.
He smiled and said something I’ll never forget.

“What difference does it really make? I’ll come and visit you. You’ll come back to England. We’ll still have time together. Please don’t put your dream on hold because of me.”

In that moment, the guilt I’d been carrying became something much lighter. Not because I stopped loving him. But because I realised that sometimes the people we worry most about are quietly cheering us on.

Looking back now, people often ask whether we should have waited.

Financially? Probably.
Logistically? Definitely.
Do we regret not waiting? Not for a single second.

It’s been the happiest year of our lives. And that experience taught me something I’ll carry forever.

Life rarely lines itself up perfectly.
There will almost always be a reason to wait.
A better financial position.
A quieter season.
The children being older.
The business being more stable.
The timing being just right.

But if you wait until every traffic light turns green before you set off…

You may never leave the driveway. Sometimes you simply have to trust that the road will unfold as you travel it.

Once we’d made that decision, everything suddenly became very real.

We found a company that specialized in helping British families relocate to France. Their job wasn’t really to do everything for us, but to introduce us to all the different services we’d need along the way. One of the first things we decided was that we wanted as much help as possible. Not because we couldn’t have figured it out ourselves. But because we’d already decided we weren’t waiting.We wanted this move to happen as smoothly and as quickly as possible.

So we hired a visa specialist. In hindsight, did he actually do very much? Probably not.

Looking back now, I suspect we could have completed most of the paperwork ourselves. But what he really gave us wasn’t paperwork. He gave us reassurance.

Whenever we had a question, we had someone to call.
Whenever we panicked, someone could calmly explain the next step.
He proudly told us that in all the years he’d been helping families move to France, he’d never had a client’s visa application refused.

For us, that confidence alone was worth every penny.
The visa process itself was… let’s just say it wasn’t glamorous.
There were forms. Then more forms.
Paperwork organized into very particular bundles.
Copies of documents.
Original documents.
Certified documents.
It felt as though every piece of paper we’d ever owned suddenly became important.

Eventually, armed with folders full of carefully organised paperwork, we travelled to London for our appointment at the French Embassy.

And standing there, clutching everything we’d spent weeks preparing, it finally dawned on us. This wasn’t just a dream anymore. This was really happening.

Standing there outside the French Embassy, clutching our folders of paperwork, I realised I’d built quite the scene in my imagination.

I’d pictured a beautiful old building in central London. Grand stone steps. Wrought-iron gates. Armed police standing guard. We’d be shown into an elegant office where a very important-looking gentleman in an immaculate suit would sit behind a huge wooden desk, ask us thoughtful questions, carefully inspect our paperwork and, with great ceremony, decide the fate of our future.

Reality couldn’t have been more different.

It was an ordinary-looking building on the outskirts of London. Perfectly functional, but not exactly the grand setting I’d imagined.

Inside, it felt a little like a post office. Rows of chairs. A ticket machine.

Around thirty service desks. You simply waited for your number to appear on the screen before walking over to whichever kiosk was calling you next. Our paperwork was checked with meticulous attention to detail.

Every document was carefully examined before we were asked to sit down again. A little while later our number flashed up once more, this time for fingerprints and biometrics. And then… That was it.

After about half an hour, someone smiled politely and said, “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

Phil and I walked outside, looked at each other and almost laughed.

“Is that it?”

No dramatic interview.
No life-changing conversation.
No grand announcement.

Just… thank you, goodbye.

So we climbed back onto the train for the four-hour journey home to Devon. As the countryside rolled past the window, a strange feeling settled over both of us.

Part excitement.
Part disbelief.
Part sheer terror.

The French Embassy now had our passports. Our entire future rested on a decision we had absolutely no control over.

By that point we’d already committed ourselves in so many ways. We’d bought a house in France. We’d sold our home in England. We’d handed back one of our cars at a significant financial loss. We’d given notice on our office.

Every domino had already begun to fall.
All that remained was one little stamp inside a passport.
If our visas weren’t approved… Well, let’s just say life was about to become incredibly complicated.

Looking back, I think that train journey was the first moment it truly hit us.

This wasn’t an exciting idea anymore.
It wasn’t a dream we’d chatted about over a glass of wine.
It wasn’t even a plan.
It was happening.
There was no turning back now.

And from that moment on, everything seemed to gather pace.

The paperwork.
The packing.
The goodbyes.
The excitement.
The fear.
The countless little details that somehow become your entire world when you’re about to leave one life behind and begin another.

But that’s a story for next time.

Until then, my darling…
À bientôt.

Stories, lessons, and reflections for entrepreneurs building a business that gives them more than income... it gives them freedom.