I left the US to buy a farmhouse in France on my own. The past 5 years have been a mix of unexpected problems and joys.

• After becoming an empty nester, I left my life behind in the US to buy a farmhouse in rural France.
• I’ve run into many issues, from finding a cow in my pool to paying for expensive home repairs.
• However, I love the life I’m creating here and have made wonderful local connections in France.

I knew my new life in rural France had officially gone off the rails when I found a 2-ton cow in my swimming pool one morning.

I heard a “whoosh,” then saw her: an enormous brown and white shape gliding through the pool. Somewhere between panic and denial, I called my neighbor, who asked me, “What did you have to drink last night?”

Before he could even show up, she (the cow) had successfully climbed her way out and was now standing on the deck like I was supposed to bring her a towel and suntan lotion.

By noon, thankfully, the cow was safe, the pool was not, and my French dream had officially met reality. I then sat down in my kitchen and tried to decide whether to cry or laugh.

Five years earlier, I’d been a business owner in Seattle, in my mid-50s, restless and an empty nester. Before, there had been me, a husband, a daughter, and a cat.

Now it was just me and an old farmhouse in rural France, miles from Seattle, and even farther from who I used to be.

For me, moving to France and buying a charming farmhouse felt like a new beginning

My family had a small holiday home in the Dordogne, France, decades ago, and I had always dreamed of returning to the country. I hadn’t planned on a solo adventure, but c’est la vie. I had friends in the area and knew how to tackle the French petrol pumps.

When I was ready to go, I sold my house and car, packed a shipping container with “Dordogne” stamped on it, and prepared myself for an adventure.

Leaving the US wasn’t impulsive; it was an escape plan disguised as reinvention. As soon as I got to familiar ground, I started scouring the countryside for a place to call home.

I stumbled across a listing for a centuries-old house, and the photos looked like a storybook: sunlight spilling across stone walls, roses climbing the shutters, and a goat lounging in the garden like it came with the place.

When the agent told me he didn’t have the key and couldn’t take me inside, I said, “I’ll take it anyway.”

I knew that I could always change the interior, and I was happy with the exterior. Plus, I was ready to trade high-speed internet and same-day delivery for ancient stone walls, slow days, and the kind of silence that hums.

However, I didn’t factor in that French bureaucracy is basically an endurance Olympic sport — one where the medals are paperwork and everyone smokes during the race.

And the inside of the house turned out to be less “storybook” and more “mystery” riddled with issues.

Not long after I moved in, my dream was put to the test

My Seattle home was all right angles, glass, and espresso machines — this farmhouse sings with history, woodsmoke, and the occasional weasel in the attic.

My electricity flickers every time the fridge hums, and the septic system is older than Napoleon. One spring, a rainstorm sent water gushing out of the bathtub drain like it had ambitions to be a fountain.

The house leans slightly to the left, like it’s had one too many glasses of Bordeaux. Its windows don’t quite close properly, the walls breathe and shed, and the floorboards complain in six different tones.

The upkeep is relentless and strangely intimate. This old house has been through wars and storms, just like me. It tests my patience, my budget, and occasionally, my balance on a ladder.

It was hand-built by monks in 1647, so each repair feels like an archaeological dig — one week I’m chasing electrical wires that vanish into 400-year-old stone, the next I’m discovering a medieval drainpipe that no one remembers installing.

For better or worse, my house became my teacher. I learned to split logs for the wood stove without swearing (much), and to accept that “tomorrow” from a repairman in rural France can easily mean “next month.”

I’d love to say that moving to France saved me money. In some ways, it did. It’s harder to order packages when delivery drivers can never seem to find my address.

Heading into town is also more of a whole to-do. The nearest café is a 25-minute drive through cow, chicken, and tractor traffic — that is, when there aren’t any French strikes in the area where you have to dodge the occasional pile of manure that’s been scattered in the road to make a point.

However, every euro I didn’t spend in Seattle, I’ve since invested in patience, repairs, and mild emotional turbulence. I exchanged the expense of Seattle for the unpredictability of France and discovered that peace costs exactly as much as you’re willing to risk.

Despite the drawbacks, it’s hard to imagine living anywhere else

Still, I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. My courtyard glows at sunset, the frogs start their nightly arguments, and the sky fills with stars so bright they light up the entire countryside.

On most mornings, I hear church bells echo across the valley, followed by the low, determined moo of the herd next door as the village baker honks when he drives by with a wave of a freshly baked baguette.

Somewhere between the broken everything, the endless paperwork, and the occasional cow incident, I found what I came for.

Life in rural France is quieter, yes, and fuller too. I sell French antiques on Etsy, run an Airbnb, and write from my kitchen table with a pain au chocolat in hand and Fleur (my dog) at my side — with a view of the French countryside that looks like it’s from a dream.

If I’m lucky, my neighbors bring along walnuts from their harvest as I bring the sarcasm and rosé.

I didn’t move to France to find perfection; I moved to find peace.

The house may be older than America, but somehow, it helped me rebuild a new version of myself — one that doesn’t need everything to make sense to be worth it.