Six Seats To Somewhere: Walking Away From A Corporate Life And Traveling Abroad With My Family

Lightning To My Soul

Somewhere in mid-February, Northern Utah seems to slip out of winter’s grip for a few days. We get a day or two where triple layer ski gear feels like too much. The sun comes out and your mind slips (briefly) into thinking about mountain biking and t-shirts.

Then we get a blast of cold air and winter-wonderland comes roaring back to Ogden Valley. In retrospect, that little weather-blip is a sure tell that we’re 6 weeks out from hanging up our skis for the season.

There are “tells” like that in seasons of life too. Finishing school, the end of a relationship, kids growing up, etc. Right smack dab in the middle of these seasons, there will be clues that we’re moving past the middle and careening towards the end of the chapter.

In real-time I didn’t see that type of shift was happening as 2017 was wrapping up. I was working in a corporate sales position that I loved. I was a young-ish dad of 3 boys with another on the way.

My life was busy but happy.

After missing out on a couple promotions that felt attainable, I was left with a lingering feeling that we were moving toward a big shake up. I had early morning daily commutes from Liberty to Salt Lake City. I was typically on the road by 6am to catch a flight or to work with customers across the Wasatch Front. Between the early drives and the long traffic ridden commutes home I had plenty of time to think about what I wanted from life.

I started brainstorming about new positions at work, new companies to look up, new ways to get excited about life again. On a quick stop for lunch in December of 2017, I found myself scrolling through Instagram and found a post from a high school friend. Her husband had secured a remote work position and their family was going to travel outside of the US for 6 straight months. This post was lightning to my soul.

Launch

The next few years were spent weaving in-between planning our escape and living life. We ran spreadsheets for schooling timelines, trip details, and financial projections. We sold our home, cars, and most of our belongings and stashed the leftovers in a shipping container on our property. A month before we left, I resigned from my job. It felt thrilling in theory: clean house, start fresh. But the reality hit hard on the plane ride out.

In August of 2023, we set out on our first one-way flight (A redeye from JFK to Oslo, Norway), and at some point during the night I had a full on anxiety attack. Everyone else was asleep, and I sat there alone, staring into the dark, realizing what we had just done.

We were homeless, jobless vagabonds. We had left behind a comfortable, structured life in pursuit of something we couldn’t fully define yet. New memories, new perspectives, a fresh lens on the world. I wrestled with fear by reminding myself this wasn’t a midlife crisis. This was a reset, planned and intentional. A clean break from the corporate grind.

A way to reclaim some control over a life that had started to feel pre-scripted.

Before we left, I thought I had a pretty clear idea of what this trip was going to be. I figured we’d travel, see the world, get inspired, and come back home recharged. What actually happened was something deeper and harder to put into a neat little summary.

The early stretch of the trip felt more like a whirlwind vacation. Norway, Germany, Switzerland, the Czech Republic. We were on the move constantly, stuffing days full of sightseeing and culture and travel logistics. I wasn’t reinventing anything yet. I was just out-of-office. But then we landed in Paris and stayed in a single place for an entire month.

That’s where something in my brain started to quiet down. We were walking everywhere. We had a rhythm. School in the mornings, parks and museums in the afternoons (with multiple stops by our favorite boulangeries).

It wasn’t dramatic. But somewhere in the rhythm, the shift began.

Paris was the first place I found myself fully present without thoughts of home. I had been so wrapped up in being productive: chasing the next contract, working towards the next promotion, brain always switched ON. With that pressure stripped away, I started to see different parts of myself emerge.

I remembered that I love writing and diving deep into history and context. That I’m more patient than I give myself credit for. That I value freedom over prestige. And that success, at least the version I’d been chasing, wasn’t the prize I thought it was.

It wasn't just me. My whole family started to evolve. My wife, who had never traveled internationally (besides a trip to Whistler and another to Cancun), was suddenly navigating train stations, local groceries, and foreign restaurants like a pro.

Our kids were learning how to ask for things in other languages, how to ride public transportation, and entertaining themselves when there was no WiFi or screens. They became curious, adaptable, and confident in a way I hadn’t seen before. They started asking real questions about history and culture, noticing differences in people and places.

We began to feel less like tourists and more like citizens- even if it was temporary.

There was one night in particular. My boys were playing in a local rugby club in Paris (@rugbyclub-paris15), right under the Eiffel Tower.

My boys didn’t speak French. They had no friends. But they joined a team, threw themselves into it, and found their place.

That image — kids playing rugby in the shadow of a world monument, hit me like a freight train. We could build a life anywhere. I didn’t need a big work title, or a specific bank balance to feel valuable. I needed to be actively engaged in my life decisions, be fully present and with the people I love.

Land Of Smiles

Americans can stay in Europe for 90 days within any 180 day period. After October in Paris and November in Rome we had to leave the Schengen Zone. We spent December in Dubai and loved it. We were awestruck by the UAE’s history of creating a thriving economic hub out of the sandy shores of the Persian Gulf. After a month in Dubai, where everything felt controlled and a little too polished, we landed in Chiang Mai, Thailand.

We got to our Airbnb in the early morning hours of December 31st. The next day, we took it slow — swam at the pool, strolled to the local market, and walked around the neighborhood.

That evening, we made our way to the Tha Pae Gate (the ancient city center of Chiang Mai). By 10 p.m., it was packed. Streets were shoulder-to-shoulder with people from all over the world. No barriers, no crowd control — just thousands of people moving in every direction, carrying paper lanterns.

We bought six of them from a vendor on the side of the road and made our way toward the river. That’s where the excitement of the celebration really hit us. Lanterns were going up non-stop. They were floating over the water, catching in trees, clipping power lines. Some just burned straight to the ground. It was wild. And totally unregulated.

We lit our first lantern together. It took a minute to figure it out—holding it steady, letting the heat build. But once it lifted, we were hooked. We lit another. And another. Our boys started helping strangers get theirs going. Everyone around us was doing the same. Different languages, different ages. No one in charge, and somehow it worked.

When midnight hit, it didn’t feel like a choreographed countdown. Someone in the crowd just started counting backwards...Ten, nine, eight... Fireworks started going off in the middle of the street. More lanterns were going up. It was loud, chaotic, and completely alive.

That night stuck with me because it was messy and beautiful at the same time. The Police and firefighters were busy keeping things safe but nobody was trying to make it perfect. It just was. And we were right in the middle of it.

We didn’t really plan that night. We couldn’t have. But it became one of the most iconic memories of the entire year. That’s the thing about this trip; the best parts weren’t always the places we mapped out. They were the moments like this, where everything felt completely off-script and completely right.

Home

Before we left, we had lived in the same house for over eleven years. It was the only home our kids had ever known. We were starting to outgrow it — four boys in a modest-sized house — and had been thinking about moving into something bigger. At that point in life, I thought of home mostly as a physical space. Something with a bit more room and maybe a better garage.

Once we had been traveling for a few months, that definition started to shift. For an entire year, we bounced between Airbnbs and hotel rooms. Some were charming, others just functional, but none of them were “ours.”

We were constantly unpacking and repacking. And yet, somehow, each place became home. We’d arrive, drop our bags, and by the next day someone would say, “Are we heading home after lunch?”

The shift became most obvious when we got to Thailand. After a few weeks in Chiang Mai and a short stop in Bangkok, we booked six or seven weeks in a small villa near the beach in Phuket. It had a tiny pool and a short walk to the ocean. It felt like another place we could settle in. But then we got a call. My mother-in-law, Marian, had passed away. While not entirely unexpected, the timing caught us off guard. Within a day, we were flying back to Utah.

That trip home was fast but significant. We had built a contingency plan into our travel budget for emergencies like this, and when we needed it, it worked. It gave us the ability to act quickly and without financial hesitation. We were able to be present with family, grieve properly, and spend two meaningful weeks surrounded by the people and places we had left behind. It was an emotional pause, but also a grounding one.

After the funeral, we flew back to Thailand. That return was one of the more surreal moments of the entire year. Walking into our Airbnb after two weeks away, it felt familiar.

It smelled the same. The swimsuits were still drying where we left them. The beds were still unmade. It didn’t just feel comfortable — it felt like home. That surprised me.

We had just come from our actual house, with family, memories, and history. And yet, this unfamiliar place on the other side of the world gave us the same feeling.

That experience reframed how I think about home. It’s not one place. It’s not fixed to an address or anchored by square footage. It’s where your people are. It’s where you feel safe and seen. It’s where love lives. And that realization brought with it both comfort and complexity. There’s something powerful about knowing you can find home in unfamiliar places — but there’s also something deeply human about craving roots.

That’s where we are now. After a year of being on the move, we’re drawn back to the idea of digging back in and laying down roots. For us, that means Ogden Valley. It means neighbors, sports, and community. It means building something we can return to after an adventure.

Running Away Vs. Running Towards

Seasons shift quietly and sometimes the signs of change show up before we’re ready to move on. That was true for us in 2017. Life wasn’t falling apart, but it wasn’t lighting us up either. I was grinding through the days, doing what I thought I was supposed to do, until I finally asked myself: Is this really the story I want to be telling?

Our trip was never about running away. It was about imagining something different — and then having the guts to chase it. That took space. It took intention. And it took action.

There were a lot of lessons from that year: about family, perspective, discomfort, and joy. The lesson that I will need to learn and relearn a million times throughout my life is this —

Regularly stop and ask yourself what matters.

What you actually want.

What story you’re writing.

And if it’s not the one you’re excited to tell,

Change it.

Ready To Write A New Chapter?

Your next chapter deserves a setting that inspires it. With mountain views, world-renowned recreation, open skies, and deep-rooted community, Eden, Utah, is a place to come home to.

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