One of the questions I get most often is simple.

Ten years in Amsterdam? You must really like it.

Usually from an Uber driver. Or someone I’ve just met. Or anyone mildly confused that I’m still here if
could live in California.

And I always pause.

Because what does ten years really mean?

Does it mean rooted?
Does it mean staying?
Does it mean this is home?
Or does it simply mean… life happened here?

Born in Madrid. Raised in the U.S. Built pieces of myself through Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, Seattle… and eventually Amsterdam.

Movement never really intimidated me.

Belonging was always trickier.

Which may explain why I ended up asking bigger questions in a city built on water.

Can you build roots in water?

What do you mean you didn’t get me dual citizenship?

I was born in Madrid, and I have always quietly believed I had to be born there for a reason.

Maybe that’s just me and my love of signs.

My father was working abroad, which meant movement entered my story before I even knew what movement was.

He gave me one of my earliest gifts: curiosity. A wider view of the world. A comfort with travel, reinvention, and beginning again.

After Madrid, we returned to the U.S., but I always felt I had touched something bigger before I was old enough to name it.

Which is why I still laugh at that baby face – the face of someone already questioning leadership decisions.

Turns out, home can start with a dog and one container.

I came to Amsterdam with Luca and my entire American life packed into one container.

Amazing how much stuff you think you need.

Also, amazing how quickly Dutch stairs teaches you otherwise.

Decluttering started practical.

Then became philosophical.

Less space. Less excess. Less attachment.
More function. More simplicity.

But Amsterdam was not only arrival.

It was excitement. Novelty. Visitors. A new country. A global role. The canal-house fantasy and all the romance of saying, I live in Amsterdam now.

And like many big moves, things did not unfold exactly as planned.

The first year challenged me more than I expected.

Some things worked.
Some things didn’t.

Reinvention quietly became part of the story.

Not because I wanted to start over.

Luca was part of that first chapter. Before Amsterdam felt familiar. Before I knew what this decade
would ask of me.

He was steadiness in a period where much was not.

And for a while, it really was just us.

Sometimes belonging looks like building the table yourself.

COVID was strange.

A global experiment none of us asked for.

And oddly enough, in some ways, one of my most creative chapters.

I travelled to 10 countries during that time. Explored differently. Worked intensely. Changed jobs.
Adapted faster than I thought I could.

And I also did things I would not normally do.

I cooked more. Hosted more. Gathered more intentionally. Found warmth in bubbles and simpler
rituals.

In many ways, I was reinventing without fully realizing it.

And somewhere in that mix, I started noticing how disconnected the world also felt.

Which made gathering feel different.

More intentional.
More human.
More needed.

Unexpected Table came from that.

Not just hosting.

A reminder that generosity still matters. That curiosity still matters. That conversation still matters.

Different people. Shared space. Better questions.

And maybe that was one of the first clearer signs that ATM was never only about travel.

It was always about people.

Turns out, movement and direction are not the same thing.

I’ve always been good at moving.

Reinvention, it turns out, became a different skill.

At some point, you realize there is a difference between being adventurous and just drifting.

And there is also a difference between starting over… and actually moving forward.

That may be what time teaches you.

Not how to avoid storms.
Not how to force timing.
Not how to stop life from interrupting you.

But how to steer better.

How to choose with more care.

How to stop pouring energy into the wrong people and places.

How to know when something is worth building… and when it is simply keeping you busy.

Roots matter.

But so does agency.

And maybe belonging is not always where you stay.

Maybe sometimes it is knowing you still have the freedom to choose what comes next.

Some things need time before they feel fully yours.

Friends gifted me a domain and a blog page and thought I should probably do something with all this travel.

Fair enough.

So I dabbled.

Then largely ignored it.

Because I was not a blogger.

And how to enjoy life never quite felt like enough.

Then life kept happening.

COVID. Shifts. Ruptures. Loss. Things uprooting when I badly wanted something solid.

ATM needed time to evolve.

And honestly, so did I.

I had gone in different directions. Held onto things longer than I should. Given too much of myself
outward.

That probably became the bigger lesson:

Discernment. Balance. Boundaries.

Returning to ATM felt less like launching something new and more like returning to what had always
been there.

People. Places. Purpose.

And yes, it feels mildly ironic to open up more while living in the Netherlands.

The Dutch don’t do curtains.

So maybe this is my own version of opening the window.

From one candle… to another.

Amsterdam gave me more than a postcode.