The Freedom Era: Paris Diaries

The Freedom Era: Paris Diaries  

Paris, France  

May 16, 2026  

11:48 p.m.

I think the first thing Paris taught me was how to breathe again.

Not in the dramatic movie-montage kind of way. Not in the “everything suddenly became perfect” kind of way either. But in the quiet, almost imperceptible way you realize one day that your shoulders are no longer sitting somewhere near your ears, that your nervous system has finally unclenched and that you walked an entire city block without wondering who might be staring at you, talking about you, judging you, or waiting for you to fail.

I arrived in Paris on May 1st, exhausted beyond belief.

I hadn’t slept in the days leading up to my trip because I was too anxious and excited to shut my brain off, and then I didn’t sleep at all on the plane either. By the time I landed, the city was warm and humid from days of rain followed by sudden heat, and I felt sticky and delirious dragging my suitcases through the airport trying to find my driver among the sea of people and foreign languages and exhaustion.

And yet somehow, even in that state, Paris still felt beautiful.

The first thing I did after arriving at my apartment wasn’t unpacking or sleeping.

It was finding a croissant.

I wandered down the street in a jet-lagged haze until I found a little café nearby and ordered a butter croissant and an espresso. I sat down on a bench on the side of the street, looked around at the neighborhood I’d be calling home for the next month-ish, and took my first bite.

I know this sounds dramatic, but I genuinely think that croissant altered my brain chemistry.

It was flaky and warm and buttery with the faintest sweetness to it, despite being plain, and the espresso tasted so rich and smooth that I immediately realized Starbucks had officially lost me forever. Sitting there on that little Parisian street corner, crumbs falling onto my shirt, while scooters buzzed by and people hurried to lunch, I suddenly had this overwhelming realization:

Oh my God. I’m actually here. Not visiting. Not dreaming about it. Not pinning photos to a pinterest board or saving TikToks  and Instagram reels about it.

I was here.

And later that night, after I’d unpacked my suitcases and finally forced myself to slow down, I looked up from my couch just as the Eiffel Tower began to sparkle outside my window. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully explain what that moment felt like. Not sadness. Not overwhelmed. Not even disbelief exactly. Just gratitude so intense it made my eyes fill with tears. The kind of gratitude that sneaks up on you quietly after surviving years you weren’t sure would ever end.

The first week in Paris was honestly difficult in some ways. The jet lag absolutely destroyed me. I was so exhausted I felt emotional constantly, and I kept staying out too late because apparently Paris operates on a schedule completely incompatible with my Midwestern sleep habits.

But somewhere around day nine or ten, something shifted. The exhaustion lifted. And underneath it, I  found myself again. Or maybe not the old version of myself exactly. Maybe someone softer. Calmer. Happier. More whole.

I spent my first week and a half mostly wandering the city instead of doing tourist attractions. I still haven’t done many of the major things everyone says you “have” to do in Paris, but strangely, I don’t feel rushed about it. I have time here. And I think what I’ve realized is that the magic of Paris isn’t necessarily in checking landmarks off a list.

It’s in the living.

It’s the bells ringing every hour outside my apartment. The sound of children laughing in the school courtyard next door while I drink coffee in the morning. The flower stands spilling onto sidewalks. The cigarette smoke drifting through restaurant terraces at night. The clinking of wine glasses. The motorcycles buzzing through tiny streets. The women carrying baguettes home for dinner. The little poodles and Pomeranians that make me miss Wrigley and Teddy every single day. And Maggie, I wish she was here to experience this with me too. It’s walking into a bakery where the women behind the counter already recognize you.

My favorite bakery near my apartment is called La Parisienne, and I genuinely think I would marry their lemon tart if given the opportunity. I don’t even know how to describe it properly. It was creamy and cool with this delicate citrus flavor layered over the most beautiful buttery shortbread crust. Nothing was overpowering. Everything felt intentional and balanced and elegant.

Honestly, I think that’s how Paris feels in general. Intentional.

People here know how to enjoy their lives. They sit at cafés for hours. They have long dinners. They dress beautifully even on random Tuesdays. They look each other in the eyes while speaking. They savor things.

Back home, I think I forgot how to savor things. Or maybe I forgot I was allowed to. One of the most unexpected parts of this trip has been the people.

Before coming here, I worked really hard to connect with others online because I knew I didn’t want to spend my entire time alone. A little over a week ago, a girl I’d never met reached out through social media and invited me to join her and some friends for drinks at Soho House.

Every instinct I developed over the last several years should have made me say no. But I went anyway and I was so excited to go! And somehow, that single decision changed everything.

That evening turned into one of the most magical nights I’ve had in years. We sat around laughing over cocktails and appetizers, talking about boys and life and dreams and all the silly little things women talk about when they feel comfortable around each other. There were Americans and French girls mixed together at the table, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt completely at ease.

No one there knew my history. No one knew about my marriage. No one knew about the headlines or the rumors or the years of pain and isolation and anxiety that followed me around back home. I didn’t feel judged in anyway by anyone and that’s a feeling I struggle with everyday at home. They were simply getting to know me for me. I cannot even explain how healing that has been. There’s something incredibly freeing about existing in a place where nobody has already decided who you are before meeting you.

Back home, after my ex-husband’s arrest and throughout the divorce process, I developed terrible social anxiety. I constantly felt like I was being judged or analyzed or whispered about. Relationships changed. Friendships disappeared. I lost people I truly believed would remain in my life forever. For a long time, I felt like I became someone others needed to be careful around and when enough people treat you like that, eventually you start believing maybe there’s something fundamentally wrong with you.

Paris has slowly been undoing that lie.

Here, I’ve realized I’m actually quite good at making friends when I feel safe. I laugh easily again. I hold eye contact longer now. I walk taller. My nervous system feels regulated in a way I honestly forgot was possible.

And somewhere between the croissants and the wine and the rainy walks home and the sparkling Eiffel Tower and the late-night conversations and the accidental group chats I somehow keep getting added to… I realized something else too:

I never had a man I loved take me to Paris.

So I fell in love with myself again and brought myself here. That realization alone may have changed my life.

A few days ago, I almost stepped in front of a bicycle while crossing the street near my apartment. This happens to me embarrassingly often because apparently I still have not fully adjusted to Parisian bike traffic. I had a migraine that day, my hair was piled on top of my head, I was wearing leggings and sunglasses and probably looked like I had emotionally given up on life for at least the afternoon.

The man riding the bicycle stopped next to me and started talking to me.

At first I thought he was upset that I nearly walked in front of him. Instead, he smiled and told me I was beautiful and said he was hoping I’d have had a good day. And strangely, that moment stayed with me. Not because of the compliment itself, but because for the first time in a long time, I realized maybe beauty isn’t always about perfection. Maybe it’s not about having the right outfit or makeup or polished version of yourself together at all times. Maybe there’s something beautiful about simply being alive and open and existing honestly in the world.

I think that’s what Paris is teaching me. Not just romance. Not just style. Not just beauty. Freedom. Not freedom from a partner or a job or a life. Freedom to become yourself.

I spent so many years believing my life had ended because my marriage did. I looked around after my divorce was finalized and realized I was 42 years old, unmarried, without children, and standing in the wreckage of a future I thought I would have forever. That kind of grief changes you.

But so does hope. And for the first time in years, I finally feel hopeful again. Not because I suddenly have everything figured out. I absolutely do not. I still stay out too late. I still don’t fully understand my stove. I still almost get hit by bicycles regularly.

But I’m happy. Genuinely happy. And maybe that’s enough for now.

This series won’t just be about Paris. It’ll be about becoming. About freedom. About learning how to write an entirely new story after believing the old one was supposed to last forever. Some entries will be short little diary moments. Others may be longer reflections like this one. There will be beautiful dinners and funny stories and lonely moments and magical nights and rainy afternoons and probably several more croissants that alter my personality permanently. But mostly, I hope these entries remind someone out there that life does not end when the fairytale changes.

Sometimes it finally begins there.

And tonight, as I sit here barefoot in my dim little apartment with the Eiffel Tower sparkling outside my window, crumbs from a baguette still sitting on the coffee table beside me, I think I’m finally beginning to understand something:

Maybe freedom isn’t about starting over at all.

Maybe it’s about finally allowing yourself to arrive.