With my wife gone, the house has become a cold and lonely place. When my sons started encouraging me to move closer to them, I clung to the idea that my home, which I had lived in for 35 years, was where I belonged. I didn’t want to be a burden—some 70-something-year-old disrupting their lives.
But as they shared their thoughts over time, it reminded me of the concerns I once had about my own parents. Each of them lived in different parts of the country, with their own lives and wishes. The hardest part wasn’t just the distance—it was how hard it was to reach them when they needed us.
Remembering that made me pause. It opened something in me.
So now, I’m giving the big city a try. Not just to be closer to my sons, but to see if it can meet my needs—medical care, reliable transportation, safety, and space for my ongoing work. I’m still building classes, coaching, and writing books on happiness. That part of me is still alive, and I want to protect it.
I don’t know yet if this place will feel like home. But I’m hoping it might hold something good for me—something supportive, something new. Maybe even something healing.
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