A few weeks ago, purely by chance, a reel appeared on my Instagram feed featuring my childhood home, my very first home. Two sisters had purchased the house and transformed it into a charming tea room. Watching the reel felt like stepping into an episode of Time Tunnel. Suddenly, I was transported fifty years back in time. The sisters documented every step of the house renovation, allowing me to see each room in meticulous detail. I recognized every corner and even spotted some personal touches, like the air conditioner my father installed in the dining room.
This house, built by my Italian great-grandfather, was where I spent the happiest years of my life.
Overwhelmed with nostalgia, I sent the reel to my daughter, my sister, and my brother. Tears welled up in my eyes, but the others took it much more calmly. It made sense, my daughter and brother had never lived there, and my sister was just a toddler when we moved out. She doesn’t remember much.
I knew exactly who would share my emotions: my childhood neighbour. He was a couple of years older than me, and we used to play together all the time. I recall how he never used the door to enter our house; he always climbed over the patio wall.
I sent him the reel and some photos, and he immediately replied with an audio message saying, “Wow! This is crazy. I don’t live there anymore, I’m renting that house, but one of these days I’ll visit the place.” One of these days...he said. No sign of emotion in his voice or in his words.
At first, I didn’t understand his reaction. Then it struck me, between his lukewarm “wow” and my near-nervous breakdown were 15 houses, 4 cities, and 3 countries, the many places I have lived since my childhood home.
Next week, I'm leaving Paris for a new destination, yet I still have no idea where I'll live.
In Swallowing Geography, Deborah Levy writes, “Each new journey is a mourning for what has been left behind. The wanderer sometimes tries to recreate what has been left behind, in a new place. This always fails. To muster courage and endurance for a journey, it has to be embarked on with something like ambivalence.” I feel she is speaking to me, because it is definitely with ambivalence that I am embarking on this new journey, and I have a painful history of having to leave things behind.
At this point, you might be wondering why I am moving again, especially if it's so upsetting for me. And that is a valid question.
People often say that wherever you go, you bring your problems with you. I disagree. Sometimes, the place itself is the problem, and we have the right to live where we feel most at ease.
I remember when I moved to London, my father asked me, “Which place is better to live, Argentina or England?” I replied that it depends on which flaws you're willing to accept because no place is perfect.
The first time I left Argentina, it was for love. The second time, I couldn’t endure another economic and political crisis.
Argentina is a stunning country but it faces a persistent issue. Every decade, it experiences severe economic crises that significantly affect people's lives. My own life has been shaped by these crises. Many of my relocations have been due to these economic downturns.
Last week, I had a work meeting with a group of women from The Netherlands. I was struck by their confidence, composure, and gentle manners. They reminded me of a couple of Dutch young women I met in 2015.
I had been invited to be a lecturer at a week-long bioethics seminar in Geneva. The activities took place at a Villa, where lecturers and attendees shared not only the academic sessions but also meals and leisure time.
These women impressed me with their assertiveness and the way they owned the space. I remember thinking: this is what happens when you grow up in a stable country. Stability is the foundation for self-confidence and temperance.
In contrast, when you grow up knowing that rules can change at any moment, you live in a constant state of alertness and stress. This state of uncertainty slowly erodes the illusions of progress and diminishes the hopes and dreams of the future.
As a lawyer, bioethicist, and legislative advisor on Gender and Health Policies, I became deeply disappointed with the political system and academia during the pandemic crisis. The final straw came in 2022 when someone decided I should leave my position in the legislative system and move to the judiciary, under conditions that were unacceptable to me. After almost twenty years of a prestigious legislative career, I finally decided, "That's it!" I quit my job and joined my daughter in Paris.
Since arriving, I've lived in three different places in Paris. Now, I'm preparing to move to a new house, in a new city, in a new country. I remember the first time I read Virginia Woolf's brilliant essay "Three Guineas," where she wrote, "As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world." I felt a deep connection with her words, and I still do. I don’t believe in frontiers; I think we are all together in this world. However, a question keeps circling in my mind: in this big world, where is home?
The logical answer would be in Buenos Aires, where my flat is. But no, that flat used to be home while I was raising my daughter. Now it is just a house. A building with walls, floors and ceilings that contains all my belongings. Home is something else.
I remember one Sunday when my daughter was seven or eight years old. I was reading the papers in the kitchen, and she was playing on her own in the bedroom. After a while, she came into the kitchen and asked, “Why do you want to spend the weekend with me if you’re just sitting here reading the papers while I’m playing by myself?” I answered, “Because I know you’re in the bedroom, and you know I’m in the kitchen. We’re together, even if it’s not obvious.” That’s what home means to me, a sense of togetherness and closeness with the people you love most.
Both my parents had incredibly bad timing when it came to dying. My father passed away just as I was starting a new family and building a home in a new country. My mother died when I was beginning a new life and searching for a home in yet another country. Both deaths left me homeless.
I always say that I belong to the slow living movement, even before it had a name. I like to do things slowly. So, I was very surprised when, a few weeks before my daughter was born, I felt an urgent need to clean and organize our home. I became frantic, clearing cupboards and drawers, reorganizing closets, and dusting every corner. Later, I learned that this is called the “nesting instinct.” Nesting is a common behaviour observed in animals as they prepare a safe space for their offspring. Apparently, this instinct also kicks in for women as their due date approaches.
When my father died, the nesting instinct reappeared, driving me to work tirelessly to save money for a down payment on a home for my daughter. I’m not sure how I managed it, but I did. I secured the funds and bought the flat where we lived together for nearly 23 years.
I think my mother had that nesting instinct in our first home. I remember her decorating the kitchen with tile stencils and gingham curtains. In my bedroom, she placed a house-shaped wooden bookshelf on the wall near my bed.
When she died, I found myself on the opposite end of the spectrum, an empty nester. My daughter had already moved out and was living on her own. It seems there's no nesting instinct for women when it comes to creating a home solely for ourselves.
I have come to realize and accept the reality that I am currently in a state of transition. But I know I am not alone on this journey. I have encountered many women, even on Substack, who are experiencing similar situations. Some are single, some are married, some are empty nesters, and some do not have children. However, all of us are determined to make a change in our lives. This change could involve moving to a new place, changing careers, early retirement to pursue a new passion, or anything else you can imagine. The common theme among us is our commitment to choosing our paths and moving forward.
The Bengali author, philosopher and Nobel Prize, Rabindranath Tagore wrote: “It is very simple to be happy, but it is very difficult to be simple.”
I really resonated with those words. One thing I have learned from my years as a policy designer is the importance of simplicity in ensuring the success of any process.
So, I have decided to approach this transformation with a clear mindset and designer thinking, aligning my decisions with my values. Even if it takes a little longer, when it comes to designing the life you want to live, I don’t believe in shortcuts.
Ageing is a privilege, and having the opportunity to reinvent ourselves is a gift.
I still don’t know where my home is, and I will always remember my previous homes with a touch of melancholia. It is inevitable, those were happy times now relegated to memory. However, as my mother wisely advised, dwelling too much on the past can turn you into a pillar of salt.
This morning, I watched a reel posted by the tea house and noticed some words painted on the wall where the house-shaped bookshelf used to be: "Insist, persist, resist, and never give up."
I don’t believe in magic, but I'd like to think those words were meant for me. It feels like a message of encouragement and love, travelling from the past to the present, urging me to look toward the future with hope.
I share this message with you and invite you to see each day as an opportunity to embody these words: to insist on our dreams, persist through challenges, resist doubts and fears, and above all, never give up on ourselves.
This was very moving, so beautiful. I loved it. And sometimes I do believe in magic...
Looking forward for the next one!!