Yesterday we said goodbye again.

This time, we were the ones pulling up the anchor and sailing away from one of our beloved kid boats. From friends who have been such a big part of our summer. From children who have spent endless hours swimming, playing, exploring and simply being together.

These friendships become intense remarkably quickly when you live this life. You share anchorages, dinners, dinghy rides, windy nights, beach barbecues, worries, laughter and ordinary mornings. For a while, being together becomes completely normal.

And then one morning, someone leaves.

Yesterday, that someone was us.

As we sailed away and watched our friends and their boat slowly disappear behind us, I realised how much saying goodbye seems to be part of our lives at the moment.

And perhaps because there is another, much bigger goodbye happening in the background, this one touched me more than I expected.

Letting go of our safe harbour

Our house in the Netherlands is for sale.

Even writing those words still feels significant.

When we left two years ago, we knew there was still a home waiting for us. We might not have lived there, but it was there. Our physical connection to our old life. A place we could return to if we wanted or needed to.

A safe harbour on land.

Selling it changes something.

We are no longer simply travelling for a while. We are making choices that make our departure from the Netherlands feel much more permanent.

And although that is exactly what we have chosen, I notice there is a feeling underneath all the excitement that I do not always like to acknowledge.

Fear.

Not overwhelming fear. Not the kind that stops me from doing things.

More like a quiet voice that occasionally appears when everything around me becomes still.

What if we get it wrong?

The questions underneath the adventure

I am quite good at looking ahead.

I love making plans, exploring possibilities and imagining what our lives could look like somewhere else. A house in another country. A different rhythm. A good school for Philou. New work. New projects. New adventures.

There is something incredibly exciting about having so many possibilities in front of us.

But possibility and uncertainty are remarkably close neighbours.

Because the truth is that we do not know where we will live.

We do not know exactly what our lives will look like a year from now.

And we certainly do not know what our income will look like, not only next year, but five or ten years from now.

That last part feels particularly vulnerable to write down.

We deliberately stepped away from a life in which many things were predictable. There were jobs, salaries, a house and a fairly clear idea of what the next few years might look like.

Now there are ideas. Opportunities. Experience. Ambition. And a lot of energy to create something new.

But there is no neatly defined financial roadmap.

And as romantic as freedom can sound, money is part of freedom too.

Freedom needs a foundation

The decisions we are making now are not only about where the sun shines, where Philou can go to school or where we would love to wake up in the morning.

They are also about what is sustainable.

How much do we want to invest in a new home? How much security do we want to keep? What kind of income do we need to build? How much do we need now, and how much will we need later?

How much freedom are we willing to exchange for stability?

And perhaps more importantly, how much stability do we need to truly enjoy our freedom?

Right now, even the starting point is uncertain.

Our house is for sale. We do not know exactly when it will sell or what we will ultimately have to work with. And yet that outcome will influence many of the decisions we are trying to make about what comes next.

Sometimes that uncertainty feels exciting.

Sometimes it really does not.

There are days when I enthusiastically look at houses, places, schools and possibilities and can almost see our next life taking shape.

And then there are moments when that little voice returns.

What if we get it wrong?

What if the house takes much longer to sell than we hope?

What if our plans for work do not develop the way we imagine?

What if we make the wrong financial decision?

What if we let go of too much?

What if the place we choose does not become home?

What if, somewhere along the way, we discover that freedom without enough certainty does not feel like freedom at all?

Making room for fear

My instinct is to answer those questions.

To calculate. To plan. To research. To create another scenario or another spreadsheet until somehow I have managed to turn uncertainty back into something I can control.

Or, when that does not work, simply to push the fear aside and focus on everything that could go right.

But perhaps I do not have to do either.

Perhaps fear does not always mean that something is wrong.

Maybe sometimes it simply shows us how much there is at stake.

Because there is a lot at stake.

Our home. Our financial future. Our work. Philou’s future. The way we want to live as a family. The freedom we have created over the past two years and the question of how we can make that freedom sustainable for the years ahead.

Of course that feels scary sometimes.

And perhaps the real challenge is not to make that fear disappear before we make our next decision.

Perhaps it is learning to let it sit beside the excitement.

Sailing away

Yesterday, we were the ones who left.

And there is something about that image that has stayed with me.

We did not leave because something was wrong. Quite the opposite. We left a place and people we loved. We could easily have stayed a little longer.

But at some point, you pull up the anchor.

Not because you know exactly what you will find around the next corner.

Simply because you have decided it is time to move.

Maybe that is what we are doing on a much bigger scale too.

We are leaving behind a home that we love. A country that will always be part of us. A version of life that offered us a great deal of certainty.

Not because it was wrong.

But because somewhere along the way, we discovered that we wanted to find out whether another way of living might fit us better.

And yes, we might get parts of it wrong.

There are no guarantees that the choices we are making now will turn out to be the right ones. Perhaps we will choose a place and change our minds. Perhaps work will develop differently from what we imagine. Perhaps our priorities will shift again as Philou grows older.

Maybe getting it wrong is part of it too.

Because making a conscious choice is not the same as knowing exactly how it will turn out.

It is knowing why you are choosing it.

Accepting the uncertainty that comes with it.

And being willing to adjust along the way.

So for now, we are sailing south.

Towards new anchorages, new people and new adventures. With excitement about everything that might be waiting for us and with a little fear travelling alongside us.

I am trying not to push it away anymore.

Because maybe courage is not being certain that you are getting it right.

Maybe it is being willing to choose anyway.

We might get it wrong. But we can always choose again.