The Final Countdown

Our Last Months in America

May 13, 2026. That's the date. The day we leave for France. As I write this, we're seven months out, and somehow that feels like both forever and no time at all.

We're on track—passports ready, documents gathering, plans taking shape—but being "on track" doesn't mean it's easy. Some days the preparation feels manageable, almost exciting. Other days, we freeze. The sheer volume of what needs to happen before May hits us both at once, and we just… stop. Stare at the piles. Wonder how we're going to get it all done.

Then one of us (usually me) takes a breath, calms the other down, and we keep moving forward. Or sometimes, we just skip it entirely for the day and pretend we have more time than we do.

Andras: Letting Go of What I Built

The logistics are surprisingly smooth for me. I can let things go without much trouble—boxes to donation, tools to friends. But there's one thing I'm still holding onto: the CAD files from my knife-making years.

I know I need to sell or trade them. A fellow knife maker told me exactly what to do—include the files, the logo designs, the wooden templates, write up a transfer of rights, and let someone else carry that work forward. It's practical. It makes sense. But I haven't done it yet.

Those files represent more than designs. They represent a decade of my life. Creating knives, selling them at shows and fairs, meeting so many good people—especially veterans and active military folks who connected with the work I was doing. I shipped knives all over the world. I built something I was proud of.

When those files are gone, that chapter of my life closes for good. I'm not a knife maker anymore. I'm someone who was a knife maker. And even though pottery has become my new passion, even though I'm excited about what's ahead in France, letting go of that identity still stings a little.

I'll do it. I know I will. Just… not yet.

Lelaine: The Weight of Everything

For me, the hardest part isn't any one specific thing—it's the sheer volume of accumulated life. Decades of belongings. Kids' memories. Craft supplies. Books. Papers. Knick knacks. Gifts from my children. Things I thought I'd need someday, things I meant to finish, things I forgot I even had.

Andras can look at a box and decide in thirty seconds whether to keep it or toss it. I look at the same box and see a hundred tiny decisions, each one pulling at something inside me. It's exhausting.

Next week, we will begin sorting through what we'll give to family and friends. The week after that, we're holding sales—storage unit style, everything must go. I know it needs to happen. I know we can't take it all with us. But knowing that doesn't make it easier.

What helps is remembering why we're doing this. France isn't about running away from what we have here—it's about running toward something we've dreamed of for years. And to get there, we have to let go. Not of the memories, just the stuff.

The Bureaucracy Tango

Thankfully, Andras has an EU passport, which makes the visa process much easier for us than it could be. But easier doesn't mean simple. We're gathering documents—birth certificates, marriage license (even though we're not married yet), previous divorce papers—and getting them apostilled, which is its own special kind of administrative nightmare.

It's a strange mix of tedious and surreal. One minute you're filling out forms and chasing notaries. The next, you're holding a piece of paper that says, "Yes, this person exists and is allowed to move to France," and it hits you all over again: this is really happening.

Our relocation contact, Valerie, knows we're aiming for mid-May. She'll start the apartment search in February. We've told her what we need—one bedroom minimum, but preferably two for our friends and family to visit us, good public transportation since we won't have a car, budget around €700-€850 plus utilities, ideally staying under €1,000 total. She's confident we'll find something in Montpellier. We're trying to trust the process, even though searching for a home from thousands of miles away feels a little like throwing darts blindfolded.

Learning French: Frustrating, Hard, and Kind of Fun

We started watching Learn French with Alexa online, beginning at the very beginning. And I mean the very beginning—colors, numbers, basic greetings. It's humbling, honestly.

The pronunciation is hard. The grammar is harder. But every so often, something clicks. You hear a phrase, repeat it, and suddenly you understand not just the words but the structure behind them, and you think, Oh! Okay, I got it. Those moments are the best part of this whole process.

We're learning together, which makes it easier to laugh at our mistakes instead of getting discouraged. And we know we'll need every bit of it once we arrive. Montpellier isn't Paris—not everyone will speak English, and we don't want to be those expats who expect the world to accommodate us. We want to belong there, not just visit.

What We're Taking with Us

Not much, in the grand scheme of things.

I'm bringing a cutting board I made for us—wood inlaid with our initials and two hearts logo on the back. It's one of the last pieces I finished before I stopped working with wood regularly, and it feels right to bring it into our new life.

We're also keeping a few pottery mugs I made—ones that turned out particularly well. They're practical, but they also represent this new creative chapter I've stepped into. The rest of the pottery, about a hundred pieces in total, will be sold. It's hard to let them go, but I can always make more in France. That's part of the dream, actually—finding a pottery studio in Montpellier, continuing the work I love in a new place.

For Lelaine, it's her paintings from her girls, a few craft supplies she isn't sure she will find in France, a few sentimental books, teaching materials, and the essentials. Everything else? Gone. Sold, donated, or given away.

It's strange how little we actually need when it comes down to it.

The Last "Lasts"

We just celebrated Lelaine's birthday—the last one we'll spend with family here in the U.S. before we leave. We tried to be present, to enjoy the moment and not let the weight of "this is the last time" ruin it. But it was there, hovering quietly at the edges.

Next year, we'll be gone. We'll miss birthdays, holidays, everyday moments. FaceTime and photos won't be the same. That reality is starting to settle in, not just for us but for the people we love.

I think the goodbyes will be harder next year when we're actually leaving. Right now, it still feels a little abstract. But soon, it won't be.

Living Between Two Worlds

We're still living above Lelaine's mom's house, and surprisingly, everything is going smoothly. Her mom has been supportive, even encouraging, which makes this transition easier than it could be. But there's an odd tension in living somewhere temporarily while preparing to leave permanently. You're present, but not quite. You're still here, but already halfway gone.

Lelaine is finishing her student teaching right now. I'm working around the house, making pottery, and doing research—gathering information we'll need for France, learning what we can, trying to prepare for the unprepared-for-able.

Most days, things move along fairly smoothly. But some days, I just want to be in France now. The waiting is the hardest part. We're ready. We've been ready. And yet—seven more months.

The Freeze and the Push Forward

When the overwhelm hits—and it does—we freeze. The piles seem impossibly large, the to-do list endless, the timeline too tight. In those moments, I try to calm Lelaine down, remind her we've got this. Or sometimes, we just skip it. Take the day off. Ignore the boxes and go for a walk, make dinner, pretend for a few hours that we're not in the middle of a massive life upheaval.

Then we come back to it. Because we have to. Because May 13th is coming whether we're ready or not.

And here's the thing: we've never doubted going. Not once. The preparation is hard, yes. The letting go is hard. The goodbyes will be harder. But the choice itself? That's never been in question.

We're going to France. We're building a new life. And everything we're doing right now—every box sorted, every document apostilled, every French lesson stumbled through—is just one more step toward the life we've been dreaming of.

Seven months to go.