I’ve spent a fair amount of my life leaving.
Not running, just moving. Following love, duty, curiosity, adventure or simply the call of the unknown.
I learned early that home could be packed into boxes and rebuilt somewhere else. When I was 3, my mum married my stepdad, an American Air Force pilot, and we left England for Japan. I don’t remember the logistics, only the feeling of newness. I remember the different air, the different sounds and a childhood shaped by impermanence.
From Japan, we moved to Florida, and then, when he retired, to Louisiana, his home state. It made sense that we’d root ourselves where his story had begun.
And then they divorced.
We stayed.
From Louisiana to England and back
Louisiana is where I grew up properly. It’s where adolescence unfolded in thick humidity and Friday-night lights. It’s where I learned to properly shuck a crawfish tail and where I received my undergraduate degree from Louisiana State University while spelling “Geaux Tigers” correctly. It was the first place that felt less like a posting and more like a choice.
And then, after graduation, I left again.
I moved back to England and stayed for 14 years. Fourteen years of building a career and relearning the rhythms of the country I’d left as a toddler. But with each year, something tugged quietly across the Atlantic.
My mum was still in Louisiana.
She never once asked me to come back. That’s the kind of mother she is: steady, selfless and determined that her children live fully wherever they land. But on visits home, I began noticing small shifts. A slower step. A deeper sigh at the end of the day. A longer nap. Time was doing what it does without asking permission.
In 2008, I stopped pretending the pull wasn’t there, and I moved back to Louisiana.
Moving to Mexico
For more than a decade, we had proximity again. Ordinary, precious proximity. Quick calls that turned into coffee. Lunches and errands that required no planning. The comfort of knowing I was close if she needed me.
And then, in 2021, I left once more. This time for Mexico.
It was the boldest move yet as it wasn’t a return to familiarity but a leap toward something entirely new. I chose Puerto Vallarta for its color and its possibilities. I chose a life that felt expansive and sunlit. I met someone. And soon I was building that life deliberately with him.
When my car was all packed up in Baton Rouge to make the trip here, I told myself I knew how to do distance. I’d done it before. But this time, she was in her 80s.
A year after I moved, my mum made a decision that still humbles me. She sold her Louisiana home, the one that had held decades of memory, and moved to Portland. My brother had already built a life there, drawn by Oregon’s green expanses, softer pace and the love of a wonderful, caring woman who’d become his wife. My mum had a tiny house built in their driveway, replacing the garage.
Watching her dismantle a lifetime was quietly devastating. Sorting photographs. Letting go of furniture that had witnessed birthdays and heartbreak. Choosing which objects would accompany her into this smaller intentional space.
She didn’t call it downsizing because what she was really doing was choosing connection over square footage and proximity over permanence.
And then she began coming to us. To Mexico.
Family time in Puerto Vallarta
Every winter, she trades Oregon’s rain for Mexico’s sun. For three months, our spare room becomes hers. The wardrobe fills with her neatly folded summer clothes. The kettle whistles more often.
Those months are soft and golden.
We sit on the porch in the mornings before the heat presses in. She cradles her tea, and I hold my coffee. We talk about politics or neighbors or the price of avocados. Sometimes we sit in companionable silence, watching the sun spill over the wall.
I find myself studying her face without meaning to. Her lines are deeper now. Her movements are more measured. There’s the careful way she lowers herself into a chair.
Aging is subtle until it isn’t.
In February 2025, while she was here in Puerto Vallarta, she became ill. What began as discomfort escalated quickly. At 82, five days in the hospital isn’t a minor interruption; it’s a reckoning.
There’s a particular amount of fear and guilt that grips you when your parent lies in a hospital bed in a country you chose. I remember standing by the window, palm trees swaying against an impossibly blue sky, thinking, “This was meant to be the joyful chapter.”
But Mexico held us.
The big question
The care she received was exceptional: The doctors were attentive, the nurses were compassionate and communication was clear. In those five days, this country shifted from being my adventure to being the place that cared for my mother.
And that matters.
When she was discharged, thinner, tired, but resolute, we sat at the dining table and had “The Conversation.”
It wasn’t dramatic or morbid, just intentionally honest.
What happens if the inevitable happens here? What are your wishes? Where are the documents? Who do we call? Do you want to be repatriated, and to which country does “home” belong now?
There were tears. There was awkward laughter. There was relief.
Living across borders means love has to be organized. It means researching medical professionals before you need them. It means keeping in touch with those doctors even when she flies back to Oregon. It means having plans in place so that if the worst happens, you’re not scrambling through grief and paperwork at the same time.
Preparation doesn’t diminish joy. It protects it.
The Pyramid of the Sun
A year later, just a few weeks ago, at 83, she stood with us at Teotihuacán, just outside Mexico City, staring up at the Pyramid of the Sun.
“I think I’ll try,” she said.
And she did.
Slowly. Carefully. Resting often.
My boyfriend climbed with her as I videoed, and he hovered without wanting to hover. My heart was lodged somewhere in my throat.
Younger tourists passed them easily, but she climbed with quiet determination.
Halfway up, she stopped and looked out across the Avenue of the Dead stretching into the distance.
When I joined them, I asked what she was thinking when she stopped.
“I’m glad I came,” she said.
Three words that seem to hold our entire family’s history. And I knew what she meant.
I’m glad I came to Japan.
I’m glad I came to Louisiana.
I’m glad I came to Oregon.
I’m glad I came to Mexico.
I’m glad I came to every single moment that shaped you.
Missing your mom
Our parents will age wherever we are. Staying in England wouldn’t have frozen her. Staying in Louisiana wouldn’t have slowed time. Leaving didn’t cause her to grow older; it simply meant I had to learn how to love her across more miles.
She flew back to Portland a few weeks ago, and I’ve been a bit weepy. The spare room seems so incredibly empty. The mornings are quieter, and I still glance at the empty porch chair beside mine before remembering she’s thousands of miles away.
The missing doesn’t soften just because the initial leaving was my choice. But neither does the gratitude.
Gratitude from Mexico
I’m grateful she crossed oceans when I was 3. I’m grateful she let me leave again and again. I’m grateful she chose family in Oregon. I’m grateful she chooses us for three months each year. I’m grateful she climbed a pyramid at 83.
I’m grateful we spoke honestly about endings before they arrive.
Living in Mexico while your parents age elsewhere is an exercise in holding opposites. Joy and worry. Freedom and responsibility. Sunshine and hospital corridors.
So we do what we can.
We invite them into our new worlds. We encourage their visits. We do the research. We keep the doctors’ numbers close. We have the hard conversations early. We plan, not because we expect the worst but because love deserves steadiness.
And then we embrace the ordinary.
Tea on the porch.
A slow walk around a market.
A careful climb up ancient steps.
There’s always room on the porch
One day in the not-so-distant future, there won’t be another winter flight. I know that. One day, there won’t be another climb.
But for now, there’s still a suitcase in Oregon waiting for her next visit. For now, there are still mornings warmed by Mexican light and the comfort of her presence beside me.
I’ve spent my life leaving. What I’m learning now is how to stay. In the moment, in the gratitude, in the fragile beauty of having her here at all.
No matter how far we travel, no matter how many countries shape us, there’s a simple rule I intend to keep.
I will always make room on my porch.
Charlotte Smith is a writer and journalist based in Mexico. Her work focuses on travel, politics, and community. You can follow along with her travel stories at www.salsaandserendipity.com.
