Travelogue.

Dear friend,

This post will feel a little different. It’s intended to be a one stop shop for what we’re up to. Just one place for you all to check to see the latest. Over time, you should expect some photos. As always, feedback is welcome. I’ll change the format accordingly.

The headline is that we’re headed overseas with Attie 27 weeks pregnant with our first. I left my job in June to accommodate the two-part transition.

But our story starts in September of 2025…

Part 0: A Messy Miscarriage

We experienced a miscarriage. It sucked. I learned how lonely a hospital waiting room is at midnight. Attie learned what it’s like to bleed so much that you can’t move without making a significant mess. Then what it’s like to go back into that same room day after day.

We had support from friends and family as we healed. To those of you who were there for us, thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Part 1: Burying the Lead

In January, Attie was asked if she’d like to be considered for an international role. We figured… what the hell, why not be on the list?

Part 2: Waiting…

Around that same time, Attie’s body and mind were ready to start trying to start our family again. We stepped onto a 28-day carousel with the commitment to change our tactics every time around.

When I was growing up, I lost a lot of time and energy fretting about pregnancy as an unintended consequence (and hoping to avoid it). Then we started trying to achieve a pregnancy. It’s hard!

So… there we were, month after month, waiting to hear about a pending international position and hoping for a positive test result in very specific 48-hour windows.

Writing this in August, it’s absurd to recognize that “month after month” spanned 120 days. Forgive the drama. The projected due date from pregnancy #1 was in early April. In each of January, February, and March, we took a large step towards that looming deadline (because Attie really wanted to be pregnant again before Bump A’s due date).

Part 3: Decision Time

In late April, we were scheduled for our eight-week ultrasound to check initial viability. The day before that ultrasound, her grand-grand-boss called her into a room and said something like, “You’re our pick for this position abroad. You have until the end of next month to decide if you’re in or out.” Attie responded with, “I’m about eight weeks pregnant and have an ultrasound tomorrow. We’ve never been cleared at this particular check before so there’s some tension for us. If that changes anything on your side, now you know.”

And then we had the discussion at home. We did a formal risk analysis (obviously…). We engaged dozens of family member and friends regarding the opportunity. We considered… is this crazy? As Phil Knight refrains in Shoe Dog: lead me from the unreal to the real.

There were ultimately two logical branches: Bump B not healthy; Bump B healthy. The not healthy branch was easy. If a second straight pregnancy short-circuited, we’d be ready for a change of scenery. The healthy branch was much trickier. Were we spoiled, selfish assholes for taking a potential grandchild overseas? Were we entitled, naive idiots for expecting a medical system abroad to “just take care” of us? Would we ever be able to follow our feet home (A Knight’s Tale)?

We deployed tools, lost sleep, soul-searched. We engaged more friends and family. Ultimately, we highlighted four primary risks: health of Attie and Bump B, financial stability paired with my earning potential, family commitments, local communities. Layer on top of that whether or not we’d actually enjoy the place, and there was only one reasonable pathway forward: try on the place and see if it fit (Ted Lasso).

So… away we went in the last week of May to explore. Upon our return, I put in my two weeks notice at work.

Part 4: The Logistics of Leaving (Home)

Packing up everything you own is exhausting. Sorting into piles of pack, store, trash, give away, is one thing. Then you realize the initial pack pile is about double what’s actually feasible to take.

Of all the details regarding our departure, there are a handful of moments that stand out. My dad telling me that if I need a wingman, he’ll be there, with tears in his eyes. My mom losing it when she dropped me at the airport before my flight overseas. My brother losing it on the golf course with a “I’m gonna miss you man.” My aunt tearing up with a “I don’t think I’ll see you again for a while.” Attie’s dad with a desperate hug at the airport and a “Do well over there, okay?” for her; then a firm handshake and a “Take care of everyone over there. I’m counting on you!” for me. Attie’s mom shepherding us through airport check-in and then bawling at the last second as she headed for the doors.

These moments of emotional overload, the tension underneath boiling to the surface. These are the moments, to me, that define a life worth living. We love big. We live hard. We’re immensely grateful for the love in our respective lives and we’re committed to building a sustainable foundation to do our best with whatever life puts in front of us. We want that foundation for our future kid(s). Before it can set, we have to build the forms and pour the wet concrete. That’s what this move is for us. A messy experiment that will solidify for our future to stand upon.

The morning I drafted this, Attie reminded me of the three rules that make her tick: do what you say you’re going to do; move your body; try to get better. We said we would explore. We said we would challenge ourselves. We said that when fear was the primary motivator to stay we would go. We said we would learn together. And so… we chose to walk through a door that opened for us.

Aside #1: You just gotta do it while you can.

On our fifth morning abroad, we woke to the news that our favorite endurance run was terminating operations. It’s a very big run in a very small town. I got roped into it because a friend’s parents moved to the town. They raced because they were new, liked being outside, and wanted to actively commune with their neighbors.

It’s a grueling 30 mile trek along the continental divide. At the 25 mile mark, runners, hikers, and crawlers (some of them bawling), start a 1000 foot ascent that includes three separate summits in loose scree. Then they descend a steep goat trail and have to limp the last 5 miles to the finish.

Naturally, upon finishing the first time, these parents wanted to return for more. They’re just those kind of folks. What’s more? They wanted others to join in the fun. So they told their kids. And their kids told their friends. And over a span of nearly 10 years, they built a community of more than 40 runners that completed the race nearly 100 times in total.

Thursday night became Arrival Night and was accompanied with the Arrival Feast. Friday morning was for bakeries, grocery stores, thrifting, and chilling. Friday afternoon was Game Day followed by Run Fuel Feast (plain chicken breast, rice, and potato salad), then the standard long-winded pre-race meeting where we were reminded to drink lots of fluids and that it was way too late to do anything about performance. For the race director, even the night’s sleep immediately preceding the race was irrelevant. Then it was The Packing Hour followed by an early turn in.

Saturday morning we locked and loaded for a 4:30AM departure so that we could beat the buses to the porta-potties at the start. I made that trek to the start four times. I don’t think I ever rode in the same vehicle, or with the same set of people.

The chilly dawn pre-race jitters complete with dropped car keys, last minute potty runs, forgotten bags, and group photos just… can’t quite be replicated anywhere else. And then you’re off for an adventure that will take the group anywhere from 8 to 18 hours. While some of us were suffering, the smarter ones were napping, vacationing, exploring (typically in vehicles), and then setting up camp at the finish.

The steep descent about five miles from the finish drops runners out of cell service, so we created the norm of texting the group chat from there. That set a timer for the folks at the finish to be on the lookout about an hour and a half later. Every single runner that ever crossed the finish line with this particular group crossed to fanfare and personalized photographs. There were almost always giggles and squeals. Sometimes there were gross celebratory drinks. There were tears, family reunions, exhausted somersaults, quick trips to the first aid area, and always, always, a circle of proud supporters.

This treatment extended to folks who didn’t finish as well. Registration earned you approval and belonging. Starting earned you respect and a deeper camaraderie. After that, come what may. We were there to support each other. On course, we had shoes rip in half, undergarments go missing, knees that just couldn’t quite make it, and a host of other maladies that I’m sure will pepper any genAI list of “what to expect when you participate in a 30 mile endurance run…”

The race directors created an opportunity for us to live these moments instead of reading about them. They created a tapestry on which we could paint a beautiful and rewarding community. We lived it. And we loved it. I’ll forever be grateful for the invite, and for the memories.

Sunday morning typically came relatively early. Let’s call it Ouch Morning. Picture a penguin trying to cross sharp rocks. Then picture anywhere from five to a dozen more. Put them around an island chock full of delicious pastries and multiple carafes of coffee. Add in tupawares loaded with whatever cookies weren’t crammed away during the too-long pre-race meeting on Friday. Finally, imagine a few of the penguins sprawling on flat surfaces that won’t poke them uncomfortably.

That’s a good visual of Ouch Morning. Just eliminate any snickerdoodles from the cookie arrangement (those were surely disappeared by this point), and add in some nice veterinarians caring for the pathetic penguins and you’ve got it. Ouch Morning typically extended to languid Ouch Afternoon, which might include more board games with built in hobble, stretch, and massage breaks. In later years, massages extended to Spa Afternoon where we enjoyed a hot tub, a cold plunge, and an outdoor shower.

In my fourth finish of the 30 mile course, I posted a personal record: just shy of nine hours. A sort of milestone. On this particular Ouch Afternoon, we ventured into town for pizza and beer. Two particularly stiff penguins waddled by with their elderly parents in tow and we chatted about the experience. They had traveled 2000 miles to run the 60 mile version of the race. And they adamantly held that anyone who could run the 30 mile course in nine hours could surely run the 60 mile course.

I thought to myself: 60 miles in a single day? I don’t know about all that. I spent the next hour in quiet, distracted contemplation. Then resolved to finish the 60 mile course.

Attie and I trained for eight months, from before Thanksgiving through the following June. We sacrificed weekends, mornings, friend hangs, other hobbies. We ran, walked, lifted, meal prepped. She’d tell you she spent a lot of time looking at my backside surrounded by wilderness. Summing our totals, we ran almost 2500 miles.

Come race day, I happened to finish. But the experience, for me, was more about the five year long journey to that particular finish line than the moment of crossing it.

The run itself, too, has reached its destination. From our small crew, I know there are hundreds of stories of the journeys it enabled. I suspect there are millions of those stories around the world.

To the directors, merci beaucoup. Well done.

To the runners, this is a poignant reminder that we don’t control the opportunities that will present themselves to us. All we can do is choose our next trail, train, and invite our friends along as we forge ahead through new terrain.

After all, registration earns you approval and belonging. Starting earns you respect and a deeper camaraderie. From there, come what may. We are here to support each other.

Part 5: Party Time

Part 6: Bubbas

Goodbye, Buddy. “You’re gonna get the same rep.”

Part 7: The Green Channel

We are here. We have arrived. With our 70 lb. (that’s about 32 kg) dog who flew under the plane (he survived the journey unscathed, as far as we can tell). The biggest adjustment for him is the lack of awesome dog friends (we miss you!), and the enormity of the task of mapping a whole new city of smells. He ignores his toys on walks and looks more like a four-legged vacuum cleaner than a critter on a walk.

One of the stressors of the trips was entering through German Customs. At Frankfurt Airport, the “internet” warns that any animal product must be declared through The Red Channel, and that those without declarations can enter through The Green Channel. Upon our arrival, The Red Channel was closed. There was a sign that said any needs of the Red Channel needed to be processed by clicking an intercom button. Sort of Orwellian, especially after a relatively long and stressful day, but that’s okay.

I clicked the button and the brusque German man said something to the effect of “What is it?” So I said “I have a dog I need to declare.”

“Is he chipped?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have his documents?”
“Yes.”
“OK. You can go.”
“Sorry? You want me to go through The Green Channel?”
“Yes. Nothing to Declare.”
“OK. Thank you. Good morning!”

Attie gave me a confused shrug: That’s it? I gave her a confused nod and pointed us through The Green Channel. The Channel turned out to be a set of double doors that opened into baggage claim and voila we were in Germany.

The only downside to a quick and painless trip through Customs is when you’ve planned for a multi-hour slog so your van is scheduled four hours after you’ve collected all 11 pieces of your luggage, including the two bags you had to surprise check and your large, unsettled dog. What to do except sit around for four hours?

Serendipity reigned again for our day of international travel. Our driver happened to be dropping someone off at the airport within an hour of our arrival. His plan had been to park and wait. Instead: he pulled up, his previous passenger unloaded, we loaded (all 10 bags and our very large dog crate), and we were off on our sleepy 3 hour journey through Western Germany.

Part 8: Dinner (and a beer)

Part 9: Speed Bumps

I want you to hold these two ideas for a moment: today was not a good day; speed bumps exist for a reason.

We are apartment hunting abroad from a 33 m2 temporary accommodation (imagine an AirBnB that can be used for immigration purposes). Our bags take up a few of them. Others are opened like clamshells so that they can fit under the bed, doubling as pull out dresser drawers. A countertop with a built-in two burner stove, a sink, and just enough room for a uselessly small cutting board take up a few more. There are some IKEA style highchairs opposite the sink and burner that don’t fold, meaning they always take up the same obnoxious amount of space. An entertainment stand with a 40" TV, a nice two cushion couch, an ottoman big enough for Bubbas to sprawl, and a coatrack-as-wardrobe (complete with 10 hangers) round out the living area on one side of the counter. The other side opens directly on to the feet of the queen bed, then two swinging doors you might recognize from a spaghetti western “separate” the toilet from the rest of the space. I think it’s feasible to hock a loogie from the toilet and land it on a saute pan with the morning’s eggs. Glorious.

You imagined that with a significant eyeroll. It’s warranted, but the space does have a sort of magic. We don’t mind small living spaces. We’ve made several enhancements that make the space cozier. We’re tidy with our fridge space and diligent about washing the dishes and keeping them away. Small space makes for small messes. And we’ve been living out of these particular bags for several months already. What’s a couple more weeks?

The unit itself is 33 m2 (how the Europeans indicate square meters), but it’s paired with a private “garden” of about 20 m2 that makes it feel much bigger. We’ll be ready to move on to our next foreign accommodation, but as I said, this place does have a piece of magic. It’s the first challenge we had to solve together after arriving. It’s our first home across an ocean. We made a terrifying decision to uproot. We tended the soil, prepared the plant for some cuts, took the saw to our existing life, and landed here. And the roots we brought with us are spreading into new soil. Magic.

So anyway, back to the top. Today was not a particularly good day. It started with my 6:38AM arrival at a park that opens at 7:00AM. It’s amazing how little attention one pays to signage when doors are open upon arrival (or maybe lack of retention is the amazing thing; I distinctly remember examining that sign multiple times). After the walk, Bubbas and I bustled out the door last minute to walk Attie to the bus. She almost missed it even though she sat around the “house” for 30 minutes waiting to leave. Then I went to work on an application packet for housing and generally anxiety-spun my way through a relatively deep life to-do list.

The anxiety-spins were interrupted by a phone call from our real estate agent telling us that everything we did this weekend to scout was a waste of time and our only viable option is a two-bedroom unfurnished apartment in the boonies. This started its own anxiety spins about ordering furniture and when it might arrive and how I might load it in a vehicle and whether I should rent a vehicle and if so how big and how I’d get the furniture up into the unit and who I might contact to help me load and unload and configure because I don’t have any friends here and… I think you get the picture.

Everything above was drafted on a Monday. Despite my commitment to writing everyday, Tuesday slipped through the cracks. Too many balls in the air, too many details to be managed back home and here, too many chores to make this tiny apartment feel like home for Attie when she gets home from work. That’s okay. We’ll soldier on. What follows is my best attempt to tie off Monday’s lessons as I glance back in time.

Attie texted me later in the day, freaked out about having messed up a task at work, “I’m freaking out that we left our home that had room for the baby. I could have enjoyed being pregnant.” We’re here instead. What are we doing?

I wrote back. “Take three deep breaths. Baby is going to survive here. We are going to survive here. Take three deep breaths. Do the next thing right.”

I opened a note and wrote a summary of what I needed the real estate agent to know. I messaged him. He called. I told them him that we really were okay with a one-bedroom space, even though we have a large dog and a baby on the way. Really, truly. Bubbas, Attie, and I lived together in 740 square feet. The biggest space we’ve ever occupied together is a luxurious 1450 square feet. We can do it. With baby. I also told him we’re still waiting on our bank account and that I’m drafting our rental application to reduce friction. He was appreciative. He joked that if Attie really wanted a one bedroom place, then we could lease the two bedroom and hang a white sheet in from of the second bedroom door. Voila, a one bedroom.

About 90 minutes later, our real estate agent called back with a listing. A one bedroom. In the city center. Near parks. With a fast commute. With a grocery store nearby. Away from the seedy part of town. Voila, a one bedroom.

We go tour it this afternoon and I hope it works. If it doesn’t, we’ll be on to the stressful next. There’s a long line of stressful nexts waiting for us. That’s what we signed up with this challenge. We chose our hard so that we’ll be better equipped to answer the call when life throws detours at us. We signed up to change our psychological profiles and brain chemistry. We wanted to change our world views. To reshape how we decide what matters, who matters, why, and how much. Forever. And we’re going to do that work of changing every day because there is no alternative.

The summary lesson from the day was: if you’re stressed and lonely and freaking out, do something about it. Activate agency in your life. If you deploy directional effort consistently over a long time, the world will bend to your sustained will. That’s just physics. And if you get tired, or the world’s not bending, find a different angle. For more on this particular mental model, look up Shane Parrish. He’s an author/podcaster/thinker/creator that I admire. He’s written extensively on the importance of leverage and position over raw effort.

The secondary lesson from the day was: storm clouds pass. If a gray mood settles in the room, do what you can to cozy up. Get busy to distract yourself from the gray. If that doesn’t work, sit with the gray for a while. If that doesn’t work, busy yourself with something else. If you’re still stuck, think really hard about why for 10 minutes. Give yourself the freedom to feel all the existential yuck. Then eat something healthy and rest. Then work really hard again.

Those storm clouds in your mood might be acting like speed bumps in your neighborhood. The city planner in your subconcious might be telling you you’re moving too fast to be safe. They might be telling you to take three deep breaths and just do the next thing right. If you listen, the traffic jam of thoughts might resolve and order may be restored. And at the end of an exhausting day, you can crack a beer. Close enough for government work.

The Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy suggested an algorithm for dealing with crying baby. Is it hungry? Is it wet? Does it need rest? Does it need stimulation? Does it need isolation? Adults aren’t that different.

For the best encapsulation of self care I’ve ever read, check out The Comfort Book by Matt Haig.

On to the next.