It’s hard to believe that a year ago this month we were savouring our final days in Paris. You can read about our last day in Paris here.

One year.

Honestly, it feels like yesterday. We wandered along the Canal Saint-Martin one last time, picked up fresh produce at our favourite market, lingered over lunch at the little bistro on the corner, and squeezed in one final visit to the Musée d’Orsay. Somehow, it never gets old.

The flight home was bittersweet. Of course, I couldn’t wait to see my family and friends again. But if I’m being completely honest, I probably could have turned around and boarded another flight back a week later.

One Year Home

Home was Paris… wasn’t it?

There was something else I’d realized while I was away: I missed the people, but I didn’t necessarily miss my day-to-day life.

That sounds terrible, doesn’t it?

Of course I missed my boys, family and friends. But I didn’t miss the rushing around, the errands, the driving or the routines I’d left behind. Every now and then, I’d wonder about the life carrying on at home without me. What was I missing?

As it turns out, not that much.

Life carried on. My boys had their lives, my friends had theirs, and everyone seemed perfectly okay without me.

There was something slightly humbling about that. For so much of my life, I’d been used to being needed. And suddenly, there I was, halfway around the world, and everyone was…fine.

Of course they were. And of course I wanted them to be.

But maybe there was something freeing about it too.

They were okay.

And so was I.

I’ve written a lot over the past year about coming home and trying to settle back into “normal” life. But what is normal after you’ve spent a year immersed in a place that feels so deeply connected to your soul?

Eventually, I kinda, sorta adjusted…

But it was impossible not to notice what I’d left behind.

Grocery shopping became a chore again. No more wandering through neighbourhood markets overflowing with sun-ripened tomatoes, stunning bouquets of flowers, still-warm baguettes, or cheeses I couldn’t pronounce but happily devoured. Suddenly, buying groceries felt like another errand instead of one of my favourite parts of the day.

Even the smallest rituals had changed. Okay, so the no-dryer situation wasn’t the best, but my clothes thanked me in the end.

I’d forgotten how much time we spend rushing around from here to there. How rarely we simply sit at a café and watch the world go by. Okay, first-world problems, I know, but those little moments were part of the dream. And for one year, that dream was my reality.

Coming Home Together

And it wasn’t just me who had to adjust.

We both did.

For a year, we’d created a life together that existed outside our normal routines. We walked everywhere, travelled often, spent lazy afternoons over lunch and had far fewer of the everyday distractions that come with life at home.

Then we landed back in Vancouver.

Suddenly we were back to our own homes, our own routines, family, friends, appointments, obligations—the lives we’d temporarily stepped away from. We weren’t just adjusting to being home; we had to figure out how we fit back into it.

I don’t think I expected that part.

Maybe that’s the thing about living a dream. Eventually, real life comes knocking.

But somewhere along the way, Vancouver started to feel like home again, too.

Familiar faces. My own kitchen, with all the proper gadgets one needs. Being close enough to see the people I love without having to calculate a nine-hour time difference. I adjusted to grocery shopping again, but I’ll take my cheese from a French market over a fluorescent-lit supermarket any day.

I didn’t necessarily stop comparing the two. Paris still wins on markets, bread, cheese, architecture…okay, a lot of things.

But I stopped feeling as though I had to choose between them.

And that’s when I realized something.

What I Really Miss

I thought what I missed was Paris.

Now, I think it was something else.

I miss the version of myself who lived there.

The woman who walked everywhere. Who lingered over coffee without checking the time. Who wandered into museums because it was Tuesday. Who believed an ordinary Wednesday deserved a glass of wine on a terrace simply because the sun was shining.

Paris didn’t change who I was.

It reminded me who I had always been underneath the routines and responsibilities of everyday life.

Maybe that’s what the best places do. They don’t transform us into someone new. They uncover the parts of us that had quietly been waiting for permission to come alive.

And perhaps the challenge isn’t trying to hold onto the dream exactly as it was, but figuring out which parts of it you want to bring home with you.

I’m still working on that.

I walk more. I try to linger a little longer over meals. I buy the good cheese—even though it’s three times the price. And every now and then, I remind myself to slow down and enjoy the ordinary.

What Happens After the Dream?

A year later, I find myself wondering about something I never considered while I was busy dreaming about Paris.

What happens when the dream actually comes true?

Do we stop dreaming?

I don’t think so.

Paris was a dream I carried with me for years. And I got to live it.

Now, another dream is quietly taking shape.

I wrote a book. I finished it. And maybe one day I’ll walk into a bookstore and find my own book sitting there on the shelf.

Who knows?

What I do know is that Paris taught me something I don’t want to forget: the things we imagine for ourselves aren’t always as impossible as they seem.

A year later, I still miss Paris. I probably always will.

But more than that, I’m grateful I had the courage to chase a dream I’d carried with me for so long.

Maybe the beautiful thing about one dream coming true is that it gives us the courage to dream another.

And sometimes, those dreams change us just enough that when we finally come home, we never quite see home—or ourselves—the same way again.