How I Ended Up Living in a Tiny Swiss Village

On July 5th last year, I moved to Switzerland.

It also happened to be my 37th birthday.

Somehow, those two milestones arriving on the very same day still feel both enormous and strangely ordinary now.

I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately. Not in the way birthdays usually make us think about getting older or setting bigger goals or becoming some shinier version of ourselves before the next trip around the sun. Honestly, I don’t care much for that anymore.

Instead, I’ve found myself asking a much simpler question.

How did I end up here?

Not just geographically.

But here.

Living in a tiny village in the Swiss Alps.

Married to my best friend.

Writing these words while cowbells echo through the valley outside my window.

Because if you had told me four years ago that this would be my life, I probably would have loved the day dream but couldn’t see how.

The funny thing is, none of this began with some grand plan.

It began with curiosity.

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I was 33 years old when I boarded a plane on June 5, 2023.

I wasn’t moving.

I wasn’t looking for a partner.

I wasn’t trying to reinvent myself.

I simply wanted an adventure.

And if I’m being honest… I was both excited and nervous to do it alone.

Switzerland wasn’t even on the list.

For the first five weeks, I followed a different thread entirely. I traveled through England, Scotland, and Ireland, exploring my Celtic roots. Walking through landscapes that felt ancient and familiar in a way I couldn’t quite explain. Listening for something… though I didn’t yet know what.

Then I boarded a plane to Mallorca, Spain for a women’s retreat.

Something shifted there.

It felt like an activation. Like a doorway opening inside of me.

And when it ended, I felt ready for the next chapter of this adventure.

The part where I had no plan.

And for the first time in my life… that didn’t scare me.

By that point, I had begun to deeply trust that the wind would carry me exactly where I was meant to go.

So I listened.

I reached out to an Italian friend I had met a couple years earlier in Paris and asked if she might want to meet up.

Her response felt like magic.

She told me she had her grandparents’ house in Jesolo, Italy—and that I could stay there for free.

So I booked a flight to Venice.

I spent about five days there, exploring the northern Mediterranean with new friends, wandering through the narrow streets and letting life unfold without any urgency or expectation.

And then…

Once again, I had no plan.

But this time, something inside me felt a pull.

North.

Toward the mountains.

There were dark clouds gathering in the distance—wind, rain, thunder, lightning—rolling in from the north into Jesolo. And instead of feeling like something to avoid, it felt like something calling me.

So I followed it.

I had a Swiss friend who had stayed with my family when she was 15 and I was 16. We’d stayed in touch over the years, so I reached out to see if she might want to reconnect.

The next thing I knew, I was on a bus heading north into the mountains.

Before I even made it to her village, I stopped along the way and stayed in a tiny place that I would later realize was only thirty minutes from my future husband’s home.

At the time, it was simply another beautiful stop.

But looking back…

It feels like life was quietly placing breadcrumbs I couldn’t yet see.

What was supposed to be a one-week visit with my friend turned into six weeks.

Six weeks that changed everything.

I fell completely in love with Switzerland.

The mountains.

The air.

The summer rain.

The running trails that seemed to stretch endlessly through valleys and forests.

The sheer beauty and power of the land.

I had been to Switzerland before with my mom and sister, but this time was different.

This time, I kept writing the same words in my journal over and over again.

It feels like coming home.

And yet, I didn’t fully understand why.

Those weeks became something much deeper than travel.

They became an initiation.

I was confronted with old patterns and beliefs that no longer served me. Things I had carried for years began to surface, asking to be seen, felt, and released.

The mountains held me through it.

I ran almost every trail surrounding me, moving through the landscape as I moved through myself.

Something shifted.

Something opened.

Something began.

About three weeks into this process, my friend suggested we go to a medieval festival in northern Italy, about an hour and a half away.

It sounded perfect.

We spent the day wandering through the festivities, drinking honey mead, admiring the craftsmanship, and soaking in the magic of it all.

At some point, she decided to call a friend of hers to see if he and his friends wanted to join us.

And that’s where everything changed.

In the wildness of Viking drums, live music, and people dancing under the open sky…

I met my husband.

From that very first night, there was an electricity between us that hasn’t faded.

We sang together.

We played guitar.

We stayed up until the early hours of the morning, wrapped in something that felt like pure joy, honesty, and recognition.

I had never experienced anything like it before.

Later, he shared something that still makes me smile.

Months before we met, his friends had asked him what he was looking for in a partner.

His answer?

“Well… she has to be blonde, play the guitar, and be smart.”

We both laughed when he told me.

Because anyone who knows him knows that list was never the point.

He’s one of the most thoughtful, emotionally attuned, and grounded people I’ve ever met. The kind of man who has always reflected my own strength back to me, even when I couldn’t see it myself.

Still…

There was something quietly magical about what happened next.

That very first night after the festival, blonde me picked up his guitar and started singing while he built us a fire.

Every now and then I’d look over and catch him watching me with a softness I’ll never forget.

Apparently…

I checked all the boxes.

But looking back, I think what we recognized in each other had very little to do with a checklist—and everything to do with the feeling of finally being deeply seen.

At some point, I showed him my ancestry results.

“Look,” I said, laughing. “I’m 27% Swiss French.”

He looked at it more closely.

Then he smiled.

“No… not just Swiss French.”

He pointed to the map.

“This is this region.”

I just stared at him.

What are the chances?

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Before I ever left for this journey, I had an experience that has stayed with me ever since.

I felt my grandmother on my father’s side tell me that I needed to go back to my roots.

At the time, I thought she meant my Celtic roots.

So that’s exactly where I went.

England.

Scotland.

Ireland.

But somewhere along the way, I discovered something I hadn’t expected.

The Celts themselves trace back even further.

Toward what author Morgan Llywelyn calls the Blue Mountains.

The Alps.

Whether you believe moments like these are coincidence, intuition, ancestry, or something else entirely, I don’t know.

I only know how they feel.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt deeply connected to those who came before me.

Not because I have answers.

But because I’ve learned to listen.

And somehow…

Every thread…

Every winding road…

Every unexpected turn…

Led me here.

Looking back, my life didn’t change because of one giant leap.

It changed because I kept saying yes.

Yes to curiosity.

Yes to uncertainty.

Yes to following something I couldn’t fully explain.

Yes to the wind.

And somehow…

Those quiet yeses rearranged my entire life.

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Nobody Tells You This Part

People love the beginning of this story.

The solo trip.

The mountains.

Meeting my husband.

Falling in love.

Packing two suitcases and moving across the world.

It sounds like something out of a movie.

Sometimes I can’t believe it happened either.

But here’s the part nobody really talks about.

The day after you move abroad…

You still have to wake up.

You still have to buy groceries.

Figure out how to live in a place that feels nothing like where you came from.

Learn a language.

Navigate a culture that isn’t your own.

Miss people.

Miss places.

Feel wildly uncomfortable in ways you didn’t know were possible.

Movies usually end when the couple gets together.

Real life begins the morning after.

And that’s where this story really starts.

There is something that happens when you move abroad that I don’t think anyone can prepare you for.

At first, you’re a visitor.

Everything feels magical.

Every mountain is breathtaking.

Every meal is exciting.

Every cobblestone street feels like something out of a postcard.

You’re on vacation.

Then one day…

Without even realizing it…

You become a resident.

And there is a tearing that happens in that transition.

I wrote those words in my journal months ago.

A tearing.

It’s the only way I know how to describe it.

Your old life hasn’t disappeared.

But your new one hasn’t fully formed either.

You’re somewhere in between.

Not quite belonging there anymore.

Not quite belonging here yet.

And somehow…

That in-between place asks more of you than almost anywhere else I’ve ever been.

Especially when you grew up in the sun.

In Northern California.

Along the coast.

Walking foggy redwood trails where the air felt soft and familiar.

And suddenly, you’re learning how to live in snow.

How to dress for it.

Walk in it.

Exist in it.

Everything that once felt instinctive now requires thought.

And even though you never questioned your decision…

Even though you never wondered if you made a mistake…

There were moments where the discomfort felt almost overwhelming.

Not wrong.

Just unfamiliar.

And constant.

And quietly, persistently asking you to become someone new.

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Thank you for reading!

With love,

Bridgette Joy