What Purchasing a Home in Belize Taught Me About Running Away From My Mental Health (And Why Coming Home May Have Helped Save It)

If you glanced at the timestamp of my last post, you’ll see it’s been nearly two years since I last checked in here. Two years of digital silence. But as any writer, mother, or human being knows, the chapters we don't publish are often the ones where the real plot twists happen.

When I left this space, I was a mom dragging a ten and twelve-year-old across international borders to a beautiful, sun-drenched home in Corozal, Belize. Today, I am sitting back in the Midwest, parenting two full-blown, hormonal teenagers (which, let’s be honest, alongside navigating perimenopause myself, is not ideal, but it certainly provides plenty of material!).

We sold our home in Belize. We unpacked our bags. And in the quiet of that transition, I did the one thing I value most as a mom, valued deeply during my years as a classroom teacher, and cherish simply as a human being: I took the time to reflect.

Reflection is a lost art in our fast-paced world. But to me, taking an honest look in the mirror—evaluating the decisions that served me well and bravely examining the ones that did not—is the only way we grow.

Renovating a home in Belize was a wild, unpredictable, beautiful ride, and it is one I will never regret. On a practical note, it ended up being a wise financial investment; we were incredibly fortunate to sell it for a profit. But far more importantly, that tropical intermission afforded me the space to step out of the noise and really, genuinely reflect.

And during that reflection, I came to a massive, humbling conclusion.

The Ultimate Detour

If I am being entirely honest with you—and vulnerability is the currency of this new chapter—buying a home in Belize to escape the heavy, fractured, post-COVID climate in the United States was just a really dramatic, exotic way of running away from our problems.

The pandemic changed all of us. For me, witnessing the isolation and the shifting landscape of the school system made me realize how desperately we need mental health education for both children and adults. But it also forced me to look inward. It made me realize that I needed to stop prioritizing everyone else's emotional safety at the expense of my own.

I have always been open about my struggles with anxiety and clinical depression. The gloomy, gray Indiana winters had always felt like an enemy I could defeat if I just found enough sunshine. So, when the world felt heavy, we bought a ticket to paradise. To quote the late, great Jimmy Buffet, we thought that changes in latitude would equate to changes in mental attitude.

But here is the truth about paradise: Wherever you go, there you are.

You can buy a house on the coast. You can surround yourself with palm trees and the Caribbean Sea. But your trauma, your anxiety, your chemical imbalances, and your internal struggles will fit perfectly into your suitcase, and they will be waiting for you when you unpack on the other side. You cannot run away from your problems, no matter how beautiful the destination is.

Doing the Work

Coming home didn’t mean we defeated our problems; it meant we finally stopped running from them. It meant we decided to stand still and do the heavy lifting.

The older I get, the more I realize that mental wellness is never a final destination. There is no magical beach where the anxiety permanently washes away. There is never an end to the work that needs to be done. It is a daily, messy, intentional journey.

I don’t know exactly where my own journey will take me next, but I know I am done hiding the process. I am stepping back into this blog space with a renewed purpose. I am here to be vulnerable and honest about the good days, the bad days, and the downright ugly days that come with "doing the work."

I plan to talk openly about the beautiful chaos of raising teens, the emotional rollercoaster of midlife, the relentless

shadow of depression, and the fierce advocacy needed for mental health awareness in a world that still tries to look away.

Welcome to the Safe Space

I don’t expect everyone to understand this pivot, but I hope a few of you will join me on this next leg of the trip.

My greatest hope in reopening this digital front porch is that by sharing my own struggles, you might see bits and pieces of your own story reflected in mine. I want you to find comfort in knowing that you don’t have to go it alone.

But please hear me: I am not just here to share my journey. I want this blog to become a sacred, safe space for you to share yours, too. I want to hear about your unexpected detours, your mid-life rewrites, and the moments you decided to stop running.

So, here’s to the next chapter. It won't be a postcard-perfect picture of an expat dream. It’s going to be something much better. May it be perfectly imperfect and beautifully broken—just enough to let plenty of light shine through.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments below: Have you ever tried to run away from a problem, only to find it waiting for you? What does "doing the work" look like for you today? Let's talk.