There’s a moment, somewhere between the last stretch of Oregon’s high desert and the first glimpse of England’s rolling green, when your life quietly divides into a Before and an After. For us, that moment happened mid‑air — all four of us indulging in an in‑flight movie marathon, restless sleep, and the unavoidable feeling of the weight and wonder of the adventure we were on. We were leaving a life we loved, stepping toward one we couldn’t yet picture, suspended between continents and identities.
Leaving Bend wasn’t simple. It meant moving closer to my husband’s family — something we had always planned to do someday — while moving farther from mine, who had been woven into the fabric of our everyday life. My parents weren’t just grandparents; they were part of our rhythm, the people who filled in the gaps, who made ordinary days feel supported and full. The idea of putting an ocean between us felt like tearing a page from a story we weren’t finished reading. There was grief in that choice, even as it felt right.
But alongside the ache was a pull — a sense that the world was asking us to stretch. We wanted our kids to grow up with a wider lens, to see and experience cultures beyond their own, to understand that the world is big and varied and full of ways to live a life. Europe felt like an open door: trains to new countries, languages overheard in cafés, history layered under every cobblestone. We wanted them to feel that expansiveness in their bones.
Stroud wasn’t the obvious choice. When people imagine the Cotswolds, they picture postcard villages and honey‑stone cottages. But Stroud offered something different — a heartbeat. A creative, slightly scruffy, deeply alive energy tucked inside the Five Valleys, where hills fold into each other like a secret and every road seems to lead somewhere unexpected. It felt honest. It felt real. It felt like a place where our kids could grow wild and curious.
When we arrived, the kids adapted first. They treated every stile like a portal, every footpath like a mission. They learned quickly that nettles are far less innocent than they appear, that mud has a personality, and that British brambles demand respect. Meanwhile, we were trying to catch our breath — quite literally. Stroud is uphill in every direction. A “quick walk” becomes a workout, and you learn to check the elevation before agreeing to an outing.
But then came the moments that softened everything.
The morning mist settling low in the valleys, turning the world quiet and ancient.
The hum of the Saturday market — bread still warm, flowers spilling over buckets, musicians playing as if the whole town is their living room.
The kindness of people who genuinely love where they live and want you to love it too.
The kids started school almost immediately. We sent them off in newly labelled uniforms, curious and excited for the change, disappearing into a building full of new friends and beginnings. And slowly, almost without noticing, Stroud began to feel less like a leap and more like a landing.
There were hard moments — the homesickness that hits at strange hours, the guilt of leaving my family behind, the unfamiliar systems, the feeling of being new in a place where everyone else seems to know the unspoken rules. But even those moments felt like part of the story, part of the stretching and softening that comes with starting over.
Leaving Bend was emotional — a shedding of a life we loved. But arriving in the Cotswolds felt like stepping into a story we didn’t know we were meant to write. A place where our kids could grow curious and brave, where Europe is suddenly at our doorstep, and where the landscape insists you slow down and pay attention.
This blog is the chronicle of that unfolding — the messy, beautiful, surprising process of building a life in a place that feels both foreign and familiar. A place that is already teaching us to look closer, breathe deeper, and trust the in‑between.
Welcome to Cotswolding. I’m so glad you’re here.
