Finding My Footing: Leaving Political Uncertainty Behind

A French Escape from Life’s Uncertainties

Posted March 18, 2025

I’m sitting on a weathered stone bench in the garden of this ridiculously charming cottage, watching the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the countryside. Five days in Gascony in exactly what my soul needed. I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been clenching my jaw until I got off the plane in France. Not just metaphorically—I mean, literally grinding my molars like they owed me money. You know that dull ache you get in your temples when your body’s been on high alert for decades? That was me, standing in Bordeaux airport in the southwest of France, clutching a tote bag full of granola bars, travel-sized Advil, and a heart full of hope.

Three glasses of wine on the plane might be helping too. 🍷

It’s been two years since the divorce was finalized. Two years of rebuilding what I jokingly call my “second act,” though sometimes it feels more like my fifth or sixth. The kids keep telling me I’m handling everything “like a boss,” but they don’t see me at 3 AM scrolling through news headlines, wondering if my little pet portrait business will survive another economic rollercoaster. They don’t hear me rehearsing what to say to clients who need to “think about it” when I quote my prices—prices that barely cover my supplies and time.

Lately, every morning felt like waking up in a dystopian novel: “Housing prices rise dramatically,” “Climate collapse imminent,” “New study says coffee is (still) killing us.” And I hadn’t even made it out of bed yet.

Don’t get me wrong—this isn’t my first time living through political and economic messiness. I remember the ’70s gas lines, the ’80s inflation, the whole “recession” rollercoaster. But this? This feels different. Louder. Meaner. Faster.

And somehow, I was still expected to eat nutritious meals, hit my 10,000 steps, and respond to every Slack message like I hadn’t just read a headline about the banking system potentially collapsing. Again.

How I Ended Up in France (A Happy Accident)

First things first—I’m not independently wealthy. This retreat was a splurge that my practical midwestern mother would have scolded me for. But after watching my retirement account do the cha-cha slide for months, I figured the money might as well go toward sanity preservation.

When my daughter Lauren said, “Mom, you haven’t taken a real vacation since before COVID,” I realized she was right. I’d been painting other people’s beloved pets non-stop, living vicariously through their joy while neglecting my own. So here I am, thanks to an affordable package deal, a stack of unused credit card points, and my daughter’s persistent “you deserve this” cheerleading.

“Just book it, Mom,” she said over FaceTime. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Global economic collapse while I’m sipping wine in another country?” I replied.

She rolled her eyes out loud in that way only adult children can. “

The Pet Portrait Business

Let me tell you about my little enterprise—”Pawtraits by Patty.” (Yes, I know the name is corny. My ex-husband thought so too, right before he left me for his Pilates instructor. But customers remember it, so there’s that.)

I started painting pets during lockdown, when everyone and their mother suddenly adopted pandemic puppies and kittens. My first commission was my neighbour’s goldendoodle, Waffle. I captured that goofy, tongue-lolling smile perfectly, if I do say so myself. When she cried after unwrapping it, I knew I might be onto something.

Five years later, I’ve painted over 300 pets. Dogs, cats, rabbits, parrots, one surprisingly expressive bearded dragon, and a hedgehog named Sir Prickles who was absolutely the diva his name suggested. Each painting takes me about 15-20 hours, depending on complexity. I work from photos, asking owners to send their favourite shots that capture their pet’s personality.

Last month, I painted a memorial portrait of a 15-year-old retriever named Buddy. His owner sent me a letter afterwards that had me sobbing in my studio:

“When I look at your painting, I don’t just see Buddy—I see the thousands of walks we took together, the way he guarded my children, how he knew when I was sad before I did. You didn’t just paint his face; you captured his soul.”

Yeah. That’s why I do this, economic uncertainty be damned.

When the World Feels Wobbly

Speaking of uncertainty… good lord, has anyone else felt like they’re living in a reality show the past few years? One where the producers keep throwing in plot twists just to see if we’ll crack?

The economy news gives me whiplash. Monday: “RECOVERY STRONG!” Tuesday: “RECESSION FEARS LOOM!” Wednesday: “EXPERTS DIVIDED!” Thursday: “NEW CRISIS EMERGES!” Friday: “FORGET EVERYTHING WE SAID MONDAY THROUGH THURSDAY!”

My small business feels those ripples immediately. When people get nervous about money, custom pet portraits aren’t exactly top priority. January and February were so slow I seriously considered getting a “real job” again. The thought of returning to corporate accounting after 5 years of freedom made me break out in hives, but there were moments I wondered if I’d have a choice.

Then March hit, and suddenly I had a 6-week waiting list. No rhyme or reason. Just the mysterious ebb and flow of people deciding they need artwork of their furry companions.

My son Jake says I should raise my prices. “Mom, you’re underselling yourself,” he insists every time we talk. Maybe he’s right. But in this economy? It feels risky. Plus, I love that my portraits are accessible to normal people, not just the wealthy who didn’t feel the pinch of inflation.

Political Animals

Can we talk politics without everyone getting their hackles up? Probably not, which is why I’ve mostly stopped trying.

The election aftermath has been… strange. Regardless of how you voted (and I’m not sharing which way I went), the tension is exhausting. Half my clients probably disagree with my views, and I with theirs, but we find common ground in loving animals. That’s something, isn’t it?

My ex was extremely political—the kind who’d argue with strangers online for hours. After we split, I realised how much of his anxiety had become mine. How his doomsday predictions had coloured my world much darker than it needed to be.

Don’t get me wrong—there’s plenty to worry about. But I’m trying to focus on what I can control. My business. My happiness. How many baguettes I can reasonably consume while I’m in France. (Current count: seven in four days. Send help.)

French Lessons

The retreat organizer, Margaretha, is a fifty-something French woman who exudes the kind of confidence I’m still working hard toward. Yesterday, she caught me obsessively checking my phone for news and client emails.

“This,” she said, plucking the phone from my hands, “is not why you came to France.”

She was right, of course. I didn’t travel 4,000 miles just to stare at the same screen I stare at back home.

“The world will still be there when you return,” she said. “All its problems too. But right now, you are here.”

Then she taught me a French phrase I’ve been repeating like a mantra: “Profite de l’instant présent.” Enjoy the present moment.

So I’m trying. I’ve spent mornings sketching the countryside, afternoons exploring villages with buildings older than my entire country, and evenings sharing wine and stories with the other retreat-goers—a surprising mix of ages and backgrounds, all seeking some version of what I’m seeking.

There’s Harriet, a retired nurse from Edinburgh with the most delightful laugh. James, a widower from Australia who’s learning to cook after 43 years of marriage to a woman who never let him in “her kitchen.” Sophia, only 32 but wise beyond her years, taking a break from her tech job in Berlin.

Yesterday we all visited a local animal sanctuary, which felt like the universe giving me a personalised gift. I spent hours sketching the rescued donkeys and goats, promising the caretaker I’d send finished portraits when I returned home.

Slow Days, Slow Thoughts

Early one morning, I sat outside with my coffee and just… stared. Not at my phone. Not at a screen. Just at the mist rising off the meadow in front of me, backlit by a truly breathtaking sunrise. I listened to birds I couldn’t name, watched a snail make its unbothered way across a garden path, and realised I hadn’t rushed in two full days.

Later that morning we went to the local fresh food market in Eauze. No big itinerary, no time pressure. Just a lazy stroll through cobbled streets, picking up goat cheese wrapped in leaves, peaches that smelled like sunshine, and a baguette that made me question why I ever bothered with low-carb diets.

There was a man at the market playing accordion, and a little girl dancing barefoot next to him while her grandfather clapped along. I actually got teary-eyed. I don’t know if it was the music or the cheese fumes, but it hit me—this is what I’ve been missing. The small stuff.

The stuff that doesn’t go viral.

The News Will Wait

I haven’t checked the news since I got here. Not because I don’t care—trust me, I do—but because I physically couldn’t absorb one more opinion about what we should be doing or fearing or fixing. It’s like trying to patch a leaky boat with a thimble.

Not knowing everything all the time is… perfectly acceptable. I used to think being informed meant being perpetually plugged in. Turns out, it’s okay to not be tuned in 24/7. You don’t become a bad citizen by taking a break.

You become a bad citizen when you’re too burnt out to care anymore.

What’s Coming Back With Me

The retreat’s winding down, and I’m already bracing myself for my return.

But I’m different now. Not transformed or reborn—let’s not get dramatic. Just… recalibrated.

Here’s what I’m taking back:

• A slower morning: No screens until my second cup of coffee and the cat feels appreciated enough to allow it.
• A little less guilt: I’m allowed to not care about everything, all the time. Especially if it’s outside my control.
• The refusal to hustle for my worth: I’m enough even if I don’t optimise every d*** second.

I still don’t have answers. I still worry. I still get overwhelmed when I think too hard about what kind of world my kids are inheriting. But I also know I’m not alone. And I don’t have to white-knuckle it through the chaos pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.

Going Home to Myself

I’ve got two more days here before real life resumes. Part of me wants to check the news, prepare myself for whatever financial or political chaos awaits. The rest of me wants to stay in this bubble where my biggest concern is whether to have cheese BEFORE or AFTER dinner (the French are very particular about this, apparently).

I’ve taken on board that the uncertainty will still be there when I return. The only thing I can change is how I carry it.

Before the divorce, before my business, I defined security as something external—a stable marriage, a steady paycheck, a predictable world. All illusions, as it turns out.

Real security comes from knowing you can adapt. From building resilience through countless small recoveries. From creating joy even when the world seems intent on cancelling it.

My pet portraits aren’t just about capturing beloved animals—they’re about preserving moments of pure, uncomplicated love. That’s something that retains its value regardless of inflation rates or election outcomes.

So I’m going back with a plan:

1. Raise my prices—just 15%. Jake was right. (Don’t tell him I said that.)
2. Launch that online course teaching others to paint their own pets. I’ve been putting it off for a year.
3. Schedule “France Moments” every day—twenty minutes to sit outside with my coffee and just be present, no matter what.
4. Remember that economic cycles come and go, politicians rise and fall, but dog kisses and cat purrs remain consistently valuable.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by it all too, consider this your permission slip to step away—even if just mentally—and find your equivalent of a garden bench in a French garden. The world will wait.

And if you need me, I’ll be in my studio, painting pets and practising profiting from the present moment.

Until next time, Patty 🎨🐾

P.S. Anyone know how to say “I need help. I’m addicted to baguettes” in French? Asking for a friend…