Where do I begin? Once again, the years have slipped by without a single post. I didn’t expect that—from myself or from life. So many dreams and assumptions now seem naïve in retrospect. I used to believe the world worked a certain way. That if you were honest, worked hard, and followed the rules, good things would follow. Recognition, opportunities, maybe even a sense of peace. But that’s not quite how it went.
Alongside my dream of being a teacher, I also dreamed of being a writer. In high school, writing felt like magic—an act of creation that could make you timeless. I thought I’d become one of the greats. University quickly humbled that ambition. Even back then—before AI—I realized people weren’t reading much anymore. Why would the world need another writer? I shelved the dream. It wasn’t that I lacked a desire to be a writer, maybe just the willingness to sacrifice so much for a dream that might only be realized posthumously—like Emily Dickinson, who never saw her own fame. I didn’t want to lose myself in the dream; I wanted to live the story, not just write it.
So I chased another dream—the one where I moved to Europe. I know I’ve written about it on this blog before, though I can’t recall the exact post. Growing up, I lived between two worlds: the U.S., where my parents raised me, and Romania, where I spent summers with my grandparents in the countryside. Those summers were magical, but they made me wonder: which place was really home and who was I?
Anyone who knew me back then remembers my passionate ideas about Romania (apologies to anyone subjected to my long rants). I studied the country’s post-communist challenges and couldn’t understand why so many people seemed hopeless about its future. I wanted to prove that it didn’t have to be that way. Maybe if more people like me moved back, things could change.
So we did. In 2018, my husband and I packed our lives—Gatsby our dog included—and moved to Romania. I started teaching at an international school, thinking I could help shape future leaders. That hope didn’t last. I quit that job a few months ago, heartbroken. It was one of my biggest professional disappointments.
I remember joining in the August 10th protest that summer, hopeful for change. But hope gave way to loss soon after. I experienced death in my family. I saw corruption up close. I realized that many of the institutions that claimed to stand for something better were just hollow. It reminded me of a man I once met in an airport, a Romanian who had moved back only to have his business fail because of corruption. Back then, I dismissed his bitterness. Now, I understand it.
Still, maybe this isn’t just about Romania—or California. Maybe it’s about growing up.
I spent so much of my twenties in anticipation. I longed to leave L.A.’s chaos for Romania’s authenticity. And for a while, the move felt right. But then my sister-in-law died. Then came the pandemic. Then two babies. And slowly, I found myself missing California—missing a version of myself.
Last summer, I went back. I even took my young daughter. We did it all—Disneyland, Sea World, Lake Arrowhead, Build-a-Bear, In-N-Out. We drove through every neighborhood I’d ever called home. Each street, each school, each corner of my past unfolded like a memory reel. The strange part? Most of the people I once knew no longer lived there. So why did it feel like home?
Because I wasn’t chasing a place—I was chasing a version of me. A younger self, untouched by loss and full of certainty. That confident girl still lived in those memories, and revisiting them felt like reconnecting with a part of my soul.
Now, I’m older. Realism has edged out idealism. I left my job—one I once believed in completely. I didn’t even take maternity leave because I thought the mission mattered so much. In the end, it was just another business. That truth hurt more than I expected.
And so, I find myself here. Unemployed—something I never thought I’d be. With two young children and a world that feels increasingly uncertain. I’m no longer in my twenties, and the road ahead seems less wide open, less full of daring possibility. These days, I crave stability more than change. I think about healthcare and schools more than ideals and dreams. The countryside life I once yearned for seems impractical now.
I thought Romania would be the key to happiness. I thought California was something I had to leave behind. But maybe happiness isn’t in the place. Maybe it’s in recognizing what you had, what you have, and what you still carry with you. Maybe it’s about learning to live here—really live—not in anticipation, not in regret, but in presence.
I still don’t know exactly where I’m headed. The path isn’t as clear or full of promise as it once seemed—but maybe that’s okay. What I do know is that I need to keep writing. Not for recognition. Not for some long-lost ambition. Just to find clarity. Just to keep steady. Writing helps me hear myself think.
So I’m here again. Not to chase a dream, but to reconnect with something real. To show up on the page, honestly—because that, at least, still feels like home.
