Leaving…
It’s not a word that exists lightly in my vocabulary — it’s deeply rooted in my life.
Too early, I saw people I loved leave. And very early on, my childhood became a series of departures: leaving Paris for the Lozère, the Lozère for the South, the South for Alsace, Alsace for Paris… and then one day, twenty-seven years ago, leaving France altogether for new horizons.
I’ve lost count of all the departures — and everything that comes with them: discoveries, disillusions, revelations, new friendships and those we’ve lost, reunions, separations… and the years that pass, endlessly, changing the way we see the world each time.
In every departure there’s nostalgia for time slipping away, a quiet worry for those we leave behind, uncertainty about what lies ahead, and the exhaustion of preparing everything, trying not to forget a single thing.
It’s always the day before leaving that you feel drained, a little low.
Your soul lets go of something and gets ready to embrace something new — but it’s not quite within reach yet.
For me, everything falls into place when the plane takes off, as if its momentum carries away the rest: the doubts, the fatigue, the sadness…
I’ve always said that leaving is like ripping off a plaster — once it’s gone, you’re free from that painful tension.
Tomorrow, a new adventure begins for us.
Tomorrow, we’ll hold our family tight, making sure we’ll never forget the feeling.
They’ll whisper in our ears, “I love you, take care,” and we’ll say the same.
I’ll let the tension fade and the tears fall.
Nomadic life is made of goodbyes.
I don’t think you ever truly get used to them, but you accept them — like a travel companion that’s simply part of the journey.
I see life as a great adventure: it’s never calm, never simple, always uncertain…
But I try to live it fully, with all its intense and sometimes contradictory emotions — because there is so much to live, to see, and to love before my great adventure comes to an end.
I am, therefore I leave.
