When my son entered this world, he did so already carrying a heavy burden. Doctors told us, with sobering honesty, that the condition he was born with could just as easily end his life as allow him to survive. In those early, terrifying months—months dominated by sleepless nights, repeated trips to sterile hospital wards, strict medication schedules, and the endless stream of suppressed cries muffled into a pillow—I clung to anything that might ground me. In a moment of desperation, I rescued what appeared to be nothing more than a lifeless twig in a pot, a discarded plant that had long ago withered. I named it Vasily. It was free, unassuming, and frail; yet I projected onto it my own fragile hope. As irrational as it may sound now, I convinced myself that if Vasily could fight its way back to life under my care, then perhaps my son’s own heart and body could find the strength to hold on too. Surprisingly, both began to flourish. By the time my boy turned three, he had miraculously outgrown the condition that once threatened his life.
Although our relief was immense, another challenge loomed: the crushing financial weight of American healthcare. Searching for a better quality of life, as well as a system that did not equate survival with bankruptcy, I gathered what courage I could and, with my son, made the life-altering decision to move abroad. In 2018, we left New York City for Spain. Vasily, revived and thriving, stayed behind with a close friend, a bittersweet reminder of all we had endured. I remember telling my child, trying to steady both our hearts, “The friends we leave behind will remain friends, and in new places we will discover more.” At the time, I could not know whether this reassurance would prove true, but I clung to the hope that it might.
Our first stop was Barcelona. The vibrant city, pressed against the Mediterranean coastline, offered me something New York could not: the possibility of slowing down. The sea whispered calm while the winding streets hinted at new beginnings. We tried to transform an empty apartment into something resembling a home, and in that attempt we visited Ikea, returning with a young potted tree whom we christened Josep. Barcelona itself presented a curious mix: physically warm yet emotionally distant. Fellow expatriates—drawn from every continent—seemed eager to forge friendships, quick to share moments of solidarity. In contrast, many locals held back, less inclined to extend warmth to an outsider mother and her small child. Still, progress came in time. When my son enrolled in school at four, I was struck with anguish after spying through a fence to see him sitting isolated from his peers. At first, I attributed his solitude to the language barrier. But eventually, bonds formed—two boys and two girls became his companions, and their parents gradually became mine as well. Life steadied into something resembling belonging.
That fragile sense of stability was shaken when the pandemic forced learning into the confines of our living room. Here, the Catalan language—already difficult—morphed into an insurmountable barrier during remote education. I could see both him and myself struggling under the weight of it. Reluctantly but decisively, we packed our lives yet again. Josep, still faithful and green, was loaded onto a truck with our belongings, and together we journeyed six hundred miles south to Málaga.
This second chapter unfolded differently. By then, I was wiser. Determined to prepare my son more thoroughly, I ensured he was immersed in Spanish lessons before we uprooted. When we arrived in Málaga, he was only six, but he strode into a new classroom ready to converse and connect. For myself, I found a school unlike any I had encountered before—a forest school, where lessons took place beneath open skies, where trees replaced walls and learning was as much about the world outside as letters or numbers on a board. After the isolation of the pandemic era, it felt restorative, almost healing. My son quickly became part of a tribe of children bonded by their shared love of nature, and soon enough, I found the other parents drawing me into their circle as if I, too, had always belonged.
Yet Málaga came with its own imperfections. As restrictions lifted, the city’s charm was overshadowed by throngs of tourists who descended relentlessly, erasing much of the tranquility we had come seeking. At the same time, the school, while nurturing in spirit, did not deliver the academic rigor I hoped for my growing child. Once more, we found ourselves confronting farewell. Hugging our newfound friends with heavy hearts, placing Josep carefully into the car, we set off again—this time for Spain’s bustling center, Madrid.
Arriving in August 2023, Madrid stood before us as a metropolis dense with cultural riches, opportunities for education, and a diversity that felt both grounding and expansive. Yet even here, mistakes were made. I chose my son’s school without fully honoring his clearly voiced preference. Believing I knew better, I ignored his choice, only to discover over two long years that my decision was misaligned with both his needs and mine. When it finally became undeniable, he did something astonishing in its bravery: he agreed to be the new kid once more. But this time, I listened. He selected his own school, stepping into an environment that embraced his individuality—nurturing the child who is at once creative, enamored with mathematics, and entirely obsessed with chess. Watching him thrive now, I know this was the turning point.
For me, Madrid is becoming home in quieter, subtler ways. I have started weaving my own web of friendships. We explore the city’s museums, revel in its theater and dance performances, and escape on weekends to the trails and hills that surround the capital. Here, at last, there is balance.
None of this would have been possible without learning to respect my son’s instincts, working alongside a thoughtful psychologist to better comprehend his unique nature, and daring to embrace significant change when necessary. Today, we live in a place where he is happy, expansive, and free, and in turn, I feel prepared to lay down the foundations for a more lasting life. And Josep—the plant who has shared every Spanish chapter with us—rests contentedly on our little patio, flourishing as though it knows the wandering may finally be behind us.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/moved-from-usa-to-spain-tried-multiple-cities-barcelona-madrid-2025-9
