• I left behind my plans in Poland and moved to the US after falling in love with my American husband.
• It took a while to adjust, but I eventually built a career and a life that I loved.
• Now, my husband wants to move to Poland — so we compromised and decided to eventually retire there.

When I first moved from Poland to Austin, Texas, for a short-term internship in my mid-20s, I never intended to stay.

As a new graduate, my goal was to get some hands-on experience in international business practices before returning home to work with my dad and teach fitness classes on the side.

Then I met the man who would become my husband. We crossed paths in downtown Austin, both waiting for a taxi after a night out. We started talking, felt an instant connection, and from that night on, kept finding reasons to see each other.

When the internship ended, I returned to Poland as planned. A long-distance relationship wasn't easy, but we made it work. One month after I left, he flew to Poland, proposed, and suddenly, the life I thought I was building there no longer felt possible.

I left behind a clear-cut path and rebuilt my life

When I moved back to the US and we got married, I left behind more than my country. I walked away from a defined career path, my family business, and the comfort of knowing exactly where I belonged.

Starting over as an immigrant was harder than I expected. As soon as I got my work permit, I took the first job offer I got. I felt pressure to prove — to my family, my friends, and myself — that I was succeeding in America.

Getting a job quickly felt like validation. In hindsight, it was a mistake. The role wasn't right, but I stayed longer than I should have. As a new immigrant, I didn't think I could afford to be selective.

When I became pregnant with my first child, I quit my job and made a difficult but necessary decision: I went back to college. I earned a degree in computer information technology and eventually started a new career in tech.

For the first time since moving to the US, I felt stable again. I had rebuilt my confidence and proven to myself that starting over didn't mean starting from nothing.

Still, something was missing. In Poland, I had always envisioned myself running a business. That dream never disappeared.

Alongside my tech career, I started my own fitness coaching business. Through it, I met inspiring women in the US — entrepreneurs, mothers, immigrants — who helped me rediscover my ambition and sense of purpose.

It took nearly 10 years, but slowly, the US started feeling like home.

While I was building a home in Austin, my husband was falling in love with Poland — but we've found a compromise

Just as I felt rooted, my husband started dreaming of the life I once left behind.

Throughout our marriage, we traveled back to Poland often. Over time, my husband fell for the things I once took for granted: the slower pace of life, the food, the walkable cities, the mountain views near my hometown, and the old architecture layered with history.

Eventually, his curiosity turned more serious. He began talking about what daily life there might look like, bringing up how it would feel to enjoy slower mornings and spend more time with my family. After one memorable visit last year, he asked if I'd be open to planning a future in Poland.

The idea no longer felt abstract. I agreed to start looking at property — maybe a piece of land, or even a small house — sometime in the next year or two.

We had a lot of conversations. We discussed our careers, finances, children, and what we wanted our future to look like.

In the end, we compromised: We'll stay in the US for the time being, but buy property in Poland within the next year or two. We'll visit as much as we can and plan to eventually retire there, about three decades from now.

Moving countries for love taught me that rebuilding takes time, and clarity doesn't come all at once. It also taught me that home isn't just about geography, but choosing each other, no matter where you are.

• Harry and Susan Jones own Bridge Avenue Berries, a blueberry farm in Allenwood, Pennsylvania.
• The farm became USDA organic certified in 2021, boosting customer traffic and interest.
• If they had bought the farm 30 years ago, they would have likely grown a more diverse set of crops.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Harry Jones, 63, who owns and runs Bridge Avenue Berries with his wife, Susan, in Allenwood, Pennsylvania. It has been edited for length and clarity.

Since I was a kid, I'd always wanted to run my own business, but it never quite came together. I tried starting a small tree nursery business, but we couldn't compete with the big nurseries and had to close it.

Then, a blueberry farm that my wife and I had been picking berries at for years went up for sale. When I first mentioned buying it, she said, "Absolutely not."

A few months later, we were there picking blueberries, and the farm still hadn't sold. We started talking with the owner and purchased it in March 2018.

We didn't have much time to figure it out. Blueberry season starts in early July, and we had about four months to get ready.

That first summer, it felt like we were drinking from a fire hose. We were learning everything at once — pests, soil, customers — mostly the hard way.

I wasn't starting from scratch, but owning a farm still surprised me

My background is in horticulture. I have an associate degree in nursery management, and I spent years designing landscapes. So, I've been around plants most of my life.

Still, running a blueberry farm is a different kind of challenge.

We have about 7 acres of blueberries — roughly 3,800 plants — and we harvest around 18,000 pounds a year.

The catch is that it all happens in about a 30-day window in July. That month is intense, but the work doesn't end with the season. The rest of the year is spent on preparing for the next one.

I've kept my full-time job in the lumber industry through all of this. We tend to call the farm my self-supporting hobby, but the truth is, even a small farm like ours struggles to make a dollar.

By the time you pay for inputs, repairs, improvements, and all the other costs that come with a small business, there's not much left.

If I were younger, I'd do it differently

At this stage of life, I think differently about what the farm should be. If I were 25 or 30 years younger, I wouldn't run it the way I do now.

Right now, we're heavily focused on one crop. If I were starting earlier, I'd cut the number of blueberry bushes down — maybe from 3,800 to about 2,000 — and use the rest of the land for other crops. Strawberries, raspberries, pumpkins — something to stretch income across more of the year.

That's the biggest challenge with what we do. When you rely on a single crop and a short season, it's hard to build a stable living.

We've found ways to spread out the income a bit. We freeze blueberries — about 1,900 pounds a year — and sell them through the winter at local markets and to restaurants.

Becoming USDA-certified organic was a game changer

We started farming organically from day one in 2018, but it took time to make it official. To become USDA certified organic, we had to go through a required three-year transition period — documenting everything we did, from fertilizers to pest control, and proving we were following the standards.

We finally got certified in spring 2021, and once we could call our berries "USDA organic," we saw more customers, more traffic, and even people driving an hour or more to pick our fruit.

But over time, the downsides started to add up. The certification cost us about $1,400 a year — a big expense for a small farm — and required inspections and paperwork during our busiest season. More importantly, I grew frustrated with what I saw as inconsistencies in the system.

In early 2024, we gave up our USDA certification and switched to Certified Naturally Grown, a smaller, farmer-led program. It costs about $350 a year and still holds us accountable to the National Organic Program Standards, but in a way that is more transparent and aligned with how we actually farm.

We know we won't do this forever

Realistically, we'll probably run the farm for another three to five years and then look to sell it, so that we can have more freedom to travel and visit our three kids and nine grandchildren.

I think about what a younger person could do with this place. It's a productive farm with a lot of potential. Someone with more time and energy could take it further than we have.

Even knowing what I know now, I'd still buy the farm.

We're happy with what we've built. It gave me a chance to finally run my own business and to work with something I've always loved — plants. And it's been meaningful to us to see people come here, enjoy the farm, and tell us how much they like it.

• At the weekend reading retreat I attended, our intergenerational group bonded over more than books.
• We had thoughtful discussions, did a guided meditation, and went on a hike in the woods.
• I came home inspired by the other retreat members and our shared connection.

In my 30s, I joined a book club but soon dropped out. Between juggling work and family, the last thing I needed then was another deadline, even a read-for-fun one.

Flash forward decades: I'm in my 60s now, the kids have flown the nest, and I have more downtime and love all things outdoorsy.

So when a friend suggested All Booked, a luxe reading retreat for women in New York State's Catskill Mountains, I was excited to try book clubs again, especially this one-off weekend version.

When I signed up, I imagined lengthy chats surrounding the retreat's featured trending book: "Mother Mary Come to Me," a memoir by prize-winning author Arundhati Roy. We certainly had those.

But what made the literary getaway especially meaningful were the casual connections we shared as total strangers — eight women in our 20s to late 60s — about life, love, and living with intention.

The retreat's luxe cabin was the perfect place for book chats and a reset

Tucked among 12 wooded acres in Windham, New York, the weekend retreat's luxury log cabin was straight out of Airbnb central casting, complete with pine exposed beams, stone floors, and a dramatic great room with soaring vaulted ceilings and cozy reading nooks.

The first night, we met our host, Suzanne, a former New York City journalist who headed to the Catskills a few years ago and never left.

We introduced ourselves with a favorite book recommendation over an Indian-inspired dinner of delicata-squash salad and curry-marinated chicken, a nod to featured author Roy, who calls New Delhi home.

After changing into our PJs, we gathered on yoga mats in the cabin's loft for a guided meditation before padding off to our log beds.

Introductions continued the next morning over a breakfast of blueberry scones and homemade granola.

Among us were two 20-something bookstagrammers, each with her own daunting stack of extracurricular romantasy novels to speed-read.

Their tripods and ring lights triggered the multitasking question that seemed to trail many of us these days wherever we went: Should we turn an experience into shareable content or power down and just enjoy it, conceivably leaving likes, followers, and revenue (from somewhere) on the table?

Aside from planning to snap a few photos, I am Team Commune with Nature.

Our multigenerational group bonded over books, nature, and a lively debate

After a morning of quiet reading time, our group met at the Windham Path for an afternoon of forest bathing, which turned out to be a slow-motion hike led by Beth, our certified forest therapy guide.

Beth, who left a corporate job to embrace her calling as a forest therapist, invited us to wander off and "connect with a tree you are drawn to."

After appreciating the bark, treetops, and stillness, we reunited with a tea ceremony. Beth poured tiny cups of tea steeped from pine needles from an insulated kettle.

Before sipping the sour reddish liquid, we were instructed to pour some on the ground to give back and thank the forest for its sustenance.

During Saturday night's dinner, Suzanne moderated our discussion of "Mother Mary Comes to Me," about Roy's complicated relationship with her mother, Mary, which eventually led to this question for the group: Is it OK to go no-contact with your parents if they upset you?

The 20-somethings were Team No-Contact, while those of us in midlife and beyond disagreed because bad-parenting moments come with the territory, and well, family is family.

Our POV tracked with the memoir's theme: Roy remained stubbornly devoted to her mom despite their lifelong turbulent relationship.

The connection and community I found that weekend reminded me that life is full of possibilities

The next day, I came home intoxicated with pine-scented fresh air and nurtured by the experience.

Confession: In this chapter as an empty nester, I often feel nestless. It's almost like I'm back in my 20s, asking fundamental questions again, such as: What should I do now? Where should I live now that I don't have to be tied to a good school system?

However, spending the weekend with retreat members, including Suzanne and forest-bathing Beth, who've made bold midlife moves, reminded me that life is an open book, filled with exciting possibilities.

Meanwhile, I've been really noticing the trees during my daily walks, brushing up on my vlogging skills (inspired by the bookstagrammers' industriousness), and seeking out even more ways to meet new friends of all ages.