I keep saying that sentence because it still feels a little unreal. We have our flights booked. And then something shifted. We decided we’re not going. Not yet.
Not because we’re fearless. Not because we’re trying to be dramatic. Mostly because life back home feels heavy right now and here our family can breathe. That’s the honest version.
And the math is weirdly practical. Our monthly food budget in the U.S. is more than the cost of our flights home. Staying one more month in Vietnam basically pays for the flights we’d buy anyway. That’s not romantic. That’s grocery receipts.
So this feels like the right place to start.
Why this space exists
“Wandering and Washing” is the most honest way I know how to describe our life.
Some days are wandering. Scooters. New streets. New languages floating through the air. Beach sand in the diaper bag.
Some days are washing. Although people do our laundry here, I am daily washing out the cloth diapers I packed across the world for my baby. And the washing of continued relational tension. Marriage tension. Parenting moments that humble me instantly. Emotional messes that follow you across oceans.
Both are real.
Both happen daily.
Both matter.
I didn’t start writing because we figured life out. I started writing because we didn’t. We’re wrestling with marriage, parenting, faith, money, worldschooling, cloth diapers, and the mental load of just being a family on the road in the 21st century. I wanted a place to talk about the real version. The messy version. The ordinary beautiful version.
If you’ve ever felt like you were doing life right and still drowning a little, you’re in the right place.
Who we are, right now
Right now our family lives in Vietnam.
We’re a family of four. A blended family. Christian is a software engineer. I’m a nurse turned stay-at-home mom for this season. We have a 14-year-old son, Wolf, and a 9-month-old daughter, Ariella.
We’ve been here for two months. We thought we were leaving next week. And here we are. Staying.
Vietnam feels safe in a way I didn’t realize my nervous system needed. That sentence sounds dramatic until you feel it in your body. Walking around without the constant edge. Feeling welcome instead of watched. Being surrounded by people who genuinely like kids.
Everywhere we go, people smile at Ariella. They talk to her. Play with her. Sometimes they literally take her out of my arms and say “bye Mommy” so we can eat. I didn’t realize how rare that felt until it wasn’t rare anymore.
I breastfeed everywhere. Coffee shops. Restaurants. Parks. Grab cars. Nobody stares. Nobody makes it weird.
That tension leaving my body — that’s been one of the biggest surprises of this journey.
The moment everything shifted
This didn’t start as a big brave plan. It started as survival.
Last year we did a worldschooling cruise from Florida to Spain and stayed a few days in Spain. That trip cracked something open. We experienced everyday community. Families learning together. Kids growing in confidence outside the typical box. And we watched Wolf change. He became more responsible, more independent, more capable. It was like watching him step into himself in real time.
But the real breaking point came later.
Ariella was about three or four months old. I was driving home from yet another appointment. I felt like my life was stuck on one of those big cat wheels where they’re running and not going anywhere. Wolf had math tutoring and guitar. That was it. He was 13 and didn’t have a sense of direction. Christian worked full time. And being a new mother was incredibly isolating.
I remember the exact moment. Driving home. Feeling this wave of loneliness hit my chest so hard I had to call Christian.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
He didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t tell me to push through. He said, “Okay. Where are we going? Let’s book it.”
That was the beginning of this journey. Not glamorous. Not strategic. Just honest.
What a random Monday looks like here
People hear “living abroad” and imagine sightseeing. Most of our life looks like life. Our days have rhythm. Structure. Laundry. Grocery lists.
A typical Monday looks like this:
- Christian and I start the morning at the coffee shop down the street. It’s usually 30 minutes to an hour of marital tension and working through real-life logistics together before the day pulls us in different directions.
- Breakfast at home. Wolf does chores. Sometimes that’s like pulling teeth.
- Badminton at 10 a.m. That’s his sport right now and he loves it.
- Our nanny comes from 9:30–12:30 and joins us at badminton. Support changes everything.
- Transportation is a scooter, baby in carrier on my chest, Wolf on the back. It’s practical, not glamorous. I absolutely love it though.
- Lunch at home. Wolf usually doesn’t like what our hostesses make, so we order food for him. For about $8 USD he can get a full sushi meal.
From 3–5 p.m. we attend a worldschool meetup focused on Minecraft and Roblox. Wolf became the Minecraft consultant there. He helps other kids build skills and charges per kid. Watching him grow in responsibility and purpose has been one of the most beautiful parts of this season.
Then he does math tutoring at a cafe or someone’s house — because education can happen anywhere.
Somewhere in the day we try to add beach time or a massage. Not luxury. Sustainability. There’s a difference.
What surprised me — and what we still miss
Living here hasn’t magically fixed our family. We still argue. We still get overwhelmed. We still have hard days. Changing location doesn’t erase being human. But the environment matters more than I realized.
Breastfeeding without judgment softened something in me. Being surrounded by people who see children in developmentally appropriate ways softened something in all of us.
Ariella hears multiple languages daily. Vietnamese. English. German. Russian. Ukrainian. Strangers smile and talk to her in their language for a moment. Since traveling, she has learned different cultural expressions. In India, the aunties taught her “Baba” and to touch foreheads with loved ones. Here, her Vietnamese grandma taught her to clap and cluck like a duck. I can literally see her brain working. It’s beautiful in the most ordinary way.
We’ve also found unexpected community. Other Christians. Other families doing life differently. People who stepped outside the Western script and are figuring it out together.
But we do miss consistent church rhythm. Sunday mornings. Midweek gatherings. The familiar structure of home — especially our own kitchen and appliances. There’s an English-speaking church about 45 minutes away we haven’t made it to yet. We’re building community slowly instead. Conversations. Meals. Friendships. Grace for the process.
We left the rat race. But we didn’t leave our need for roots. We’re still growing those.
What I want you to know from the start
We didn’t run away from life. We changed the conditions so our family could breathe.
I was lonely. I saw my son struggling. I saw my husband struggling. And we decided to step off the plank and see what happened.
Not into shark-infested water. Just into something different.
We’re still washing diapers. Still wrestling with marriage. Still learning how to parent. Still figuring out faith and money and what home and family even means.
We’re just doing it on the road.
So here’s the question I keep coming back to:
What part of your life feels like it’s happening by default because it’s what you’re supposed to do — and what would happen if you gave yourself permission to question it?