It’s been anything but quiet, and not by accident.
A lot has changed. Some of it was planned—some of it arrived like a wave I couldn’t stop. And didn’t want to stop. I quit my job after 25 years. Sometimes I call it retirement, but at 56, I feel too young for that. I sold and gave away nearly everything, left the United States, and moved to Thailand. And most profoundly: I lost my dad—along with, once again, becoming estranged from my immediate family. That family part still echoes through me in ways I can’t fully articulate.
It’s a kind of storm where everything shifts—yet somehow, it still feels like I’m standing in the eye of it.
I’m writing this from a place I never expected to be, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. It’s been a mix of grief, discovery, and overwhelming change. The noise—the rush, the striving, the constant urgency of daily American life—is gone. But the questions, the loss, and the adjustments? They’re loud. And yet, in this new place with its slower rhythm, I’ve come to find that quiet and a slow life mean something different than I thought.
I’m learning to embrace something softer. Simple living. Slow rhythms. Letting time unfold on its own—rather than chasing it, watching my life race past.
Thailand doesn’t demand hustle. It doesn’t force you into endless motion. Life here moves slower, but my mind, my heart, haven’t quite caught up. There’s still a lot to reckon with—lessons to process, emotions to feel. I won’t pretend it’s easy. The grief of losing my dad and the betrayals within my family are still fresh. They follow me into this new chapter. But even so, I’m finding moments of clarity—brief, yes, but real—that remind me of the value of simplicity, and of space.
Life here feels less violent. More human. And I’m allowing myself more space—to breathe, to grieve, to reflect. I’m not chasing anything right now. I’m sitting with what is, and with what’s left in my life that I still want to experience. And it turns out, that’s more than enough.
This move wasn’t about escape. It was about returning—to myself, to life. It’s about clarity. Stripping away the unnecessary and returning to what truly matters. To stillness. To the feeling of being alive in my own skin, without needing to prove anything. Not to anyone.
I miss my family deeply. Or maybe it’s just that I miss the idea or concept of family that I never had. But this absence has made room for something unexpected: a kind of clarity. I can hear myself more clearly now. I want less drama, more connection. And I feel more.
This next chapter isn’t about reinvention. It’s about concentration—on what’s most essential. It’s about stripping away the excess, whether physical clutter, relational drama, emotional baggage, or old patterns of thought, until only the purest, most meaningful parts remain. Like a refinement of my own essence.
So if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, or what I’ve been up to—that’s it. I’ve been learning to live with less. Less stuff. Less noise. Less pressure to be productive. And a whole lot more feeling. It’s messy. It’s complicated. But it’s real. And it’s revealing a smaller, slower, more honest life for myself.
I’m still figuring it out. Still learning. And I’m grateful for every moment.
If you’ve made it this far—thank you for walking with me.
Lise Herbin Schleicher
Sending love Mo. And a family by choice if you want one.