No postcards

I’m not your typical everyday Substack expat living in France.

I’m not renovating a château, or obsessed with cheese. I’m not captivated by Paris, and I don’t spend time comparing my adopted country to the one I left behind. I don’t even drink wine anymore.

I’m well past the honeymoon phase, although I don’t think I ever had one. Yet, here we are.

I didn’t move abroad because I was romantic or wealthy, or because I was chasing some postcard image of France made of baguettes and berets, or late afternoons sipping rosé on the River Seine. I didn’t come here with a heart full of hopes and dreams, or with a “hubby” or any credit cards.

I left simply because my life in the United States was headed for the pits, so I hawked it for a new one, far away.

---

When looking back, I see an untethered 27-year-old, delicate around the edges, but unraveling and immature, self-aware but lost.

I had already moved house over a dozen times since leaving Washington, DC, for Colorado at 18. I found myself now living in a studio apartment in Philadelphia, accompanied by a dog and a constant hangover. I had a habit of being let down by people I trusted or pushing them away long before they had a chance.

I was in shaky recovery from a severe eating disorder, and had just left a relationship with a man who, in many ways, had kept me alive, though I never thanked him for it. Tears streamed fiercely and often, and along with a steady flow of booze and prescription pills, encouraged me to plan my next move.

I’ve always been painfully introspective. I knew I needed to make a drastic change to disrupt my floundering and give me some purpose. Leaving felt like the only option left (and besides, my European passport had been burning a hole in my pocket).

So, I sold what I owned of value, gave the rest away, and, of course, spent all my money before I even boarded the plane.

Then, I buried the worst of myself as deep as I could, packed everything else into a duffel bag and a backpack, and showed up at Newark Liberty International with my dog in a crate and a one-way ticket to Paris (because why not).

---

Upon arrival in France, I found new ways to break and new ways to survive, all under the guise of self-discovery.

And after three years of living in spaces smaller than humanly possible, up enough stairs to give Jane Fonda’s legs a run for their money, and learning French and a passable amount of Arabic on the street, I departed for Brussels in a Peugeot 106.

I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I was desperately searching.

Those were unstable years, punctuated by bad decisions, relationships that doubled as either life rafts or lead weights, and chaos that I can’t narrate because I wasn’t fully present for it. I had a psychiatrist at the time who sent me home with a prescription for 10 different head meds. I thought I was terribly sick, and so did everyone else.

By the age of 34, I had burned most of my bridges and lost everything I had to lose, except for the hope I wasn’t aware I still carried in me. I felt dead inside.

---

I don’t know why or how, but somewhere along the way, I started paying attention and asking questions. I saw what was feeding my patterns and bad choices, blurry at first, and then clear as vodka. I accepted my cries for attention for what they were and tried to listen to myself and trust what I heard. It was a process. I was waking up.

Then it hit me: My suffering was of my own making (duh). Enough was enough. I could finally read the matrix.

And so, one lonely afternoon in April, nine years ago, I asked for help, not to anyone in particular, but loud enough for all to hear, in an admission of complete defeat. And I made a decision… to STOP the madness.

I was alone and miserable, bloated, bruised and poorly, curled up on a checkered bathroom floor in a filthy apartment in Brussels, realizing that whatever I had been looking for all those years wasn’t out there waiting to be found (and surely, I wasn’t going to be able to drink it or smoke it or get it at the pharmacy).

Eureka.

Without anything external to dampen my raging insides, I quickly transformed into a hot mess who could feel everything, all the time. I was hypersensitive and dreadfully overwhelmed.

Again, I stood at a crossroads... I would have to find a way to get through the unbearable days (and years) that were sure to follow.

One solution was to pick up a pen and start writing again. It was free and came naturally, and helped me make sense of a beautiful world that makes no sense at all. It also helped me untangle the knots I had made of myself.

---

Before June 2025 (when I started Turn Left at the Goat), I only wrote privately. I was afraid of being honest on paper for other people’s eyes and judgment. But then I thought, what’s the worst that can happen if I open the gates?

I had three subscribers to begin: my mother, my father, and my partner Pierre, whom I signed up myself. Since then, the blog has grown (slowly) to nearly 140 subscribers, which isn’t a big number, though I’m grateful for each of you.

I regularly consider giving up, especially when I share vulnerability. But Pierre and I agreed years ago that if we say we’re going to do something, we do it, even when it gets uncomfortable.

So this is me, keeping that promise.

Cheers,
–Lex

Thanks for reading. And thank you for being here. Take good care of yourselves. Till next time. PEace.