The summer I aged backwards

How living in a French château with 21 strangers changed me

Hello, friend.

I’m back in Los Angeles after nearly six months away, and I need to tell you what happened toward the end of my trip. It was a pretty big deal.

But first, a recap for new readers.

Last January, as horrific wildfires were blazing through the bone-dry wildlands around LA, I was contemplating giving up my beloved Beachwood Canyon apartment and going nomad.

My gut was telling me to go for it, but I felt paralyzed by all the unknowns — which places I’d visit, where I’d stay, with whom, doing what. The field of possibility was too wide, and I nearly chickened out.

But there was one thing I knew for sure: There was a 12th-century château in Normandy that my whole body was screaming to visit: not a hotel or a rental property, but a “coliving”; a shared home for people to come together for a month at a time. They had rooms available in August, and I knew without a single speck of doubt that I would be desperately sad and possibly ill if I did not book one for myself.

So I typed my name into their online form, gave my notice on my apartment, and set out on what I’m calling my “midlife gap year”, a chance to wipe clean my slate of assumptions about who I am and what I want out of life. All year, the prospect of my month in the château pulled me forward, and now it is behind me.

There are many ways I could tell this story. I could tell you about the day trips to medieval villages or the beach, about the cozy movie nights and bonfires, about the yoga classes and puzzles and games. And the food, the food! Well, it was France, so I don’t need to tell you that my days were full of pungent cheeses and flaky tartlettes aux pommes, fresh oysters and mussels, crêpes and fondue, and a whole lot more.

I could tell you about the group dynamics and the individual bonds that formed. That thirty days is the perfect amount of time for coliving—a wide enough window for familiarity and fondness to fly in, but not enough time for minor frictions to develop into rifts or resentments. That, in the span of one month, you might even experience a feeling not unlike love.

But the real story here, the story I want to tell you, is how my coliving month affected my sense of place in the human family.

These past few years I’ve been burrowing deeper and deeper into solitude. Since my divorce, since covid, since my cancer treatment and recovery, since wrestling my business to the mat and wriggling free of its death grip, I have had precious little capacity for anything, especially socializing. I was bone tired and needed a smaller, quieter life.

Plotting my nomadic itinerary, I intentionally sought out housesitting opportunities where I could be alone in the countryside, with just animals for company. I didn’t miss people all that much. There is a peaceful pleasure in being self-contained, anchored in my body, my thoughts, my writing.

When I got to the château, I wasn’t sure how I would tolerate so much close contact with so many people, especially a bunch of random strangers.

I just ran the numbers on our group demographics. Including core staff, we were 22 in total, with nine women, thirteen men, ten Europeans, eleven north Americans and one Australian.

I was kind of obsessed with age; mine and everyone else’s. The overwhelming majority were in their thirties and twenties, with only four of us over forty. At fifty-four, I was the furthest along on the timeline. Our youngest—the Australian—was only twenty-three.

My place in the birth order presented me with a minor head fuck. When did I become the village elder? Me, who is usually the baby in all my various friend groups? Me, who still secretly identifies as a precocious ingenue? It was sobering to realize these new château friends were technically not my peers but years, sometimes even a whole generation, younger.

You might wonder if I felt out of place, or if the Young People and I couldn’t relate to each other. But you know what? The opposite happened. We got loose and funny and real with each other. We danced in the kitchen and ran around Normandy together. We shared hugs and open hearted truths, and became real friends. It was as if a younger version of me had woken up and come out to play. I almost forgot I am not thirty-two.

It’s crucial to have friends who are going through the same shit and looking out on a similar horizon, and I adore my Gen-X sisters. But in that month, I came to see just how far I’ve drifted from the energy of youth. (And yes, I count the late thirties and even early forties as youth—which I know is a super old-persony thing to say.)

Over family dinner in our regal dining room, I looked around the table at my companions and thought: wow, these people have all their hormones, and it shows. This place is fizzing with ambition, sexuality, a sense of possibility, and the humble curiosity of figuring out how the world works; all qualities that are much more muted in me and my midlife friends. They are fucking around and finding out. How glorious.

I took in that vibrant energy like a vitamin B shot in the ass.

Please understand: I don’t mean to disparage my age. Being in your fifties is great. I love having solid life skills and good judgment. I love my maturity, my confidence, my self-awareness, my peace. I love feeling liberated from oppressive beauty standards and narrow definitions of success. I love that I am not easily pushed around, that I have nothing to prove and am comfortable in my skin. Finally, after all the therapy and personal growth work, my inner conditions are set to support the living of a truly joyful life. These are just a few of the prizes you can win for having years in the game.

It does however seem horribly unfair that these priceless internal gifts should coincide with external conditions getting objectively worse across the board. My eyesight, my physical energy, my memory, my looks, my earning potential, my opportunity horizon are all on the wane, just as I’m emotionally and spiritually ready to put them to good use! What a swindle.

The curmudgeonly know-it-all in me says I’ve been everywhere and bought all the t-shirts, none of which fit quite like I’d hoped they would, so what was the point. But that kind of thinking is a rear window, and I don’t want to spend my days ruminating on my many past mistakes or grieving what is falling away.

So this is the project of my wisdom years: I am determined to enter into life more deeply, even as aspects of it are observably withering. I want to love being here, and to be sorry to leave the party when the lights go out.

I am looking for ways to dilate the cervix of possibility even as it wants to curl in on itself. I will take my daily vitamins, which are honesty, courage, and surrender. I will spend my currencies of time, energy, and attention deliberately. I will speak my mind. I will take risks. I will let myself be surprised. I will fuck around and find out—but this time, with the benefit of experience. This, I think, is how to birth myself into the kind of elder years that I desire and deserve.

I’ll never be a young woman again, but I can be youthful forever, and this summer I saw what that might look like. It looks like coming out of my cave, letting new people into my life, learning from them, loving them, and letting them love me back.

xo

What’s next?

I don’t know where I’m headed next. I’m here in California through the end of the year, and will probably hop across the pond again in the spring. As much as I am a serious nester and homebody, it turns out I love the nomad life and am not ready for it to end yet.

I didn’t even get around to telling you about the ten days I spent in Provence after leaving the château, but the upshot is, I fucking love France and might just move there.

Until then, my gap year continues, so watch this space!

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Support for your writing life

You might have noticed that I haven’t published a new essay here since early August, basically when I moved into the château. I was writing while I was there, I just couldn’t finish anything! Too many temptations and distractions. But I really don’t want to choose between human contact and writing, so in the year ahead, I want to work on how to balance both. I no longer force myself to do anything, especially when it comes to my creative life, so let’s see how that goes.

One creative project that did go well while I was at the château was The Furies Tea Time Writers’ Club, my six-week online support group for women+ who write, or who aren’t writing but wish they were. It was a big success, so I’ll definitely be bringing it back, probably as an ongoing, pay-as-you-go drop-in group. If you’re facing your own challenges with your creative life and you would love some community support, just reply to this email and I’ll make sure to let you know when I’m getting set to start it up.

One-on-one creativity coaching

You can also tap me for some personal support by booking a quick 15-minute vibe check with me, where we’ll discuss your creative goals and what kind of coaching would work best for you. I work with writers of all levels of experience, from seasoned veterans of the craft who want to take their practice deeper to novices who need help getting started.

If you’re stymied by a crisis of confidence, indecision, procrastination, a lack of purpose, or any other emotional or mental blocks that are getting in the way of living your best creative life, this is for you.

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What about that château, though?

I know, it’s amazing, right? It’s called Château Coliving, and you can find out all about it here. I’m definitely going back next year—why not join me? This summer, I taught a publishing workshop for my coliving buddies. For 2026, I am looking at potentially leading a special themed month for writers.

Can you imagine a whole month of writing, connecting with other writers, and eating fancy French cheese in this amazing space? Again, drop me a line if you want to get on the waitlist to find out more.