Roaming Towards Myself

When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?

The last risk I took probably looks bigger from the outside than it feels from the inside.
Selling my house, travelling, writing publicly, and planning a move overseas might sound like a gamble. From the outside, I can see how it might look like I packed up my life and decided to throw it into the wind.

But that is not how it feels to me.
It feels measured.
I did the sums. I asked the questions. I looked at what kind of life I wanted next, and what I would need to make it possible. I did not wake up one morning and decide to relocate overseas because I was bored and needed a dramatic plot twist.
Although, to be fair, there were probably only two real options.
Either get a tattoo and learn to ride a motorbike, or open a small bed and breakfast in France.
Apparently I chose the one with more paperwork.

It is still a risk. Of course it is. Moving countries, buying a home, building a small business, and doing it all in your fifties is not exactly the same as changing brands of laundry powder.
But it does not feel reckless.
It feels like something I was supposed to do many, many years ago, as strange as that might sound. Not in a mystical lightning-bolt way. More in the quiet, annoying, persistent way some ideas keep tapping you on the shoulder until you finally stop ignoring them.
From the outside, it might look like I am taking a huge risk by packing up my life and relocating overseas.
To me, it feels like I am late to my own party.

How did it work out?
I will let you know in twelve months.
Hopefully from a little old house in France, with guests upstairs, coffee brewing, a small dog nearby, and me wondering why on earth I did not do it sooner.