Why France?

Morning view from my bedroom at La Maison de Beaumont

Lately, the question I’ve been getting most is: “Why France?”

It usually comes with a tilted head, a raised eyebrow, or that polite pause people give when they think you’ve completely lost it. And sure, I could toss back the cheeky answer — “Why not France?” — but the truth is, I’ve asked myself the same question, over and over. Especially while wading through piles of paperwork, squinting at French consulate forms, and wondering if I was insane. (Spoiler: I probably am. But aren’t the best life choices usually the insane ones?)

Whenever doubt creeps in, I think back to last year.

I’ve always been a journaler. Not the “Dear Diary” type, but the practical, I-need-to-survive-this type. Writing became less of a hobby and more of a lifeline when my health suddenly turned upside down. Friends and family know bits and pieces of that story, but no one really knows the full scope of how terrifying it was.

It started last summer. Everyone else was out at cookouts, concerts, and summer get-togethers, drinking beers and soaking up sunshine, while I was lying in a dark, silent bedroom, staring at the ceiling and praying my body would give me a break. One day it was blurry vision. The next, numbness. Then headaches. Then vertigo. It was like playing medical whack-a-mole, only I was the one getting smacked down every time.

I couldn’t drive. Couldn’t look at my phone for more than a few seconds. Everyone kept saying, “Just see a doctor,” as if I could magically get an appointment the next day. The one thing I could do was paint. Somehow, brushstrokes and colors became my therapy. It was the one place my body stopped screaming at me.

Then came the morning I couldn’t lift my coffee mug. Pins and needles shot through my right arm, my leg was already unreliable, and panic set in hard. Breathwork? Worthless. Yoga? Not a chance. Lying down? Only made me more aware that my body was betraying me.

A few days later, the numbness spread to the other side. That’s when I finally gave in, went to the ER, and after hours of questions and scans, heard the words I’d been dreading: lesions on my brain. Most likely MS.

I’d never been sick before. Suddenly, my world felt smaller, scarier, and so uncertain. How would I work? How could I start a family? How was I supposed to live a happy life in this new, unpredictable body?

That night, I sat in bed and made a promise to the universe: If you let me get better, I won’t waste it. I’ll live fully. I’ll take every opportunity. No holding back.

And slowly, unbelievably, I started to get better. Not because of a miracle drug or overnight cure, but because I had to change how I lived. I threw myself into meditation, breathwork, yoga that was often more painful than peaceful, and more vitamins than I could count. I journaled, I prayed in my own spiritual way, and I kept asking the universe for healing — and in return, I found myself refocusing.

Progress came in small, hard-won steps. Driving again. Cooking again. Laughing with friends without immediately retreating to bed. Some days it was two steps forward, one step back. But still — steps. Every time I could walk, breathe, or paint without pain felt like a gift.

And with each gift, my perspective shifted: life wasn’t something I could take for granted anymore.

And then… came France.

In May, I finally arrived at an artist residency in Provence — a tiny village in the south of France, surrounded by hills, lavender, and endless sunlight. I’d never been to France before, but something about it felt important, like a calling. So I went.

And within two days, I felt more at home than I had in months. The light, the smells, the people — it was like breathing fresh air for the first time. My body felt stronger, too. Every day I hiked up what I proudly called a mountain (though let’s be real, the French would laugh and call it a hill). But for someone from rural Ohio, where the land is flatter than a pancake, trust me: it was a mountain.

View from the hill overlooking Beaumont

I painted from sunrise to sunset. I shared wine and long conversations with new friends. I lived fully in ways I hadn’t dared to imagine a year earlier.

And it didn’t take long to realize: I didn’t want this to be temporary. It wasn’t just a trip; it was a love affair. The “ugly crying on the plane home” kind of love affair.

So I went back in June. And then, when I returned to Ohio, I started the process of applying for a Visa. Chicago consulate, forms in triplicate, one very grumpy official insisting I was applying for the wrong Visa (spoiler: he was wrong). Weeks of waiting. And then one afternoon, an envelope arrived. Inside was my passport, stamped with a shiny Talent Visa. One year. Renewable. Permission to make France more than just a fling.

Yes, I cried. Yes, it was ugly.

So, when people ask me “Why France?” here’s my answer.

Because a year ago, I was begging the universe just to let me walk again. To drive. To sit in the sun without pain. And now, the universe handed me something more: the chance to move to Provence in September, to paint, to grow, to live out a life I once thought I’d never get back.

And really — who in their right mind would say no to that?