In 2018, I wrote an article titled Why We Moved to Sardinia.
It is one of the most-read articles on this website.
When it came out, we had only just arrived. Everything was raw, beautiful, confusing, golden-lit, overwhelming. It felt like standing on the threshold of something ancient and vast—with no idea what we’d find here.
Now, it’s been five years of living in this village. Seven years since we first took the leap of faith to leave the United States and move to a small village on an Italian island, few people outside of Europe know. And what years they have been. Full of self-discovery, ancestral healing, altered paths, dreams, and more than can ever be held in words on a page.
Here are some things I didn’t know then that I now know:
The land knows who you are before you do.
I didn’t choose Sardinia. She chose us. Or maybe, better yet, called us back. There are times I’ve questioned our decision—but I’ve never doubted that I belong to this place, even if I may never entirely belong in it.
People are always asking us, WHY? Why Sardinia? And there is no simple answer.
There are the practical reasons, the soulful reasons, the ancestral echoes, the failures, and the blessings. There is the dream of something new and exciting and the hope of finding somewhere safe for your children. Together, these paint a somewhat accurate picture of what it means to uproot your life and plant it somewhere entirely new.
A Message from the Land
On our first visit to Sardinia as a family (our daughter was 8 months old), as we stood watching the sun set over Alghero on our last night on the island, I received something I can only describe as a message from the island herself. I call her Nonna Sardinia—she has that kind of presence. Ancient, wise, loving, but firm.
And what she said was this:
“Please bring my children home.”
I knew she wasn’t just talking about my husband, who was born here to Sardinian parents but raised in Rome. She was speaking of our children—and maybe of all her children—those who also had left her due to financial hardship, their own wish for a better life.
And something in me just said yes.
From that moment on, we began working toward returning.
The End of a Chapter
At the time, we lived on a homestead in Vermont—tending gardens, raising animals, and birthing babies. It sounds idyllic, and in many ways, it was. But it was also a period of burnout, transition, and eventually… loss.
We lost our business. We lost our home. We went bankrupt.
But sometimes, collapse clears the way for clarity. We realized that if we were going to rebuild our lives, we wanted to do it somewhere that mattered, somewhere that spoke to our spirits, somewhere that our children could grow up with a sense of belonging.
And Sardinia answered.
Stranger in a Strange Land
We arrived with what fit in a few suitcases. We sold most of what we owned. We left behind what no longer worked.
Yet, life here isn’t perfect and hasn’t always been easy.
We don’t romanticize it. I have been disappointed and frustrated, yet I just place one foot in front of the other.
I often say that living in Sardinia is nothing like visiting it, even for extended periods of time.
Living here is more like navigating an invisible code.
There are unspoken rules: shops are known by the owner’s name rather than signage, and directions are based on houses that don’t exist on maps.
Someone might say:
“Oh, it’s across the street from the bar.” Which bar?
“It’s next to Gavina’s.” Which Gavina? Do I even know her?
“The event is in the afternoon.” – Yes, but what time?
“I thought the event was in the piazza?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear? Giovanni’s uncle died, so the event was canceled.”
Then there is the language itself. People speak a mix of Sardinian and Italian. I’m the only one in the family still learning the language. My husband and the kids are native speakers. We raised the kids bi-lingual. So, I live alone in the in-between, understanding far more than I can say and wondering if anyone will ever know the real me. I am smart in English, even eloquent, and funny. It’s humbling and often isolating to learn a new language out of necessity.
As a mother, it’s also a strange thing to rely on others to move through the world.
After 25 years of driving in the United States, I don’t drive here. There’s no license exchange between Italy and the U.S., and the idea of starting over from scratch while mothering young children with disabilities, navigating new systems, and building a life from the ground up just isn’t something I’ve had the capacity for– yet.
My husband drives, and he’s flexible and supportive. But still, it is limiting. There’s a kind of spontaneous independence I’ve had to let go of. No quick errands. No sudden adventures. Everything is planned, layered, and sometimes missed altogether.
Yet, many things I thought were losses have become invitations instead. But they didn’t feel that way at first. And I think that’s important to say out loud.
The Village Wasn’t What I Expected—But It Was Exactly What I Needed
Rule #1 – Don’t try to fit in.
You don’t integrate by trying to blend in (especially when you are several inches taller than everyone else, and your fashion and wet hair make you stick out like a sore thumb!).
You integrate by rooting down with the land. Listening.
Learning the seasonal rhythms. Making your offerings. Embracing who you are, even if you’re “the American.” Especially if you are.
Even if you are more than a curiosity than a member of the community (and let me tell you how that hurts sometimes), you still become a thread in the existing weave, even if you stand out, like the weed pushing up between the stones, seeking the sun.
Here, everyone’s known each other forever. Social circles aren’t expanded—they’re inherited.
When we moved here, I had this quiet dream– that we’d find the village. You know, the one that would help raise our children. That old saying—it takes a village.
And in some ways, we did find it.
But not in the way I imagined.
When our daughter was struggling, when the diagnosis process felt endless, and when we couldn’t find the proper support for the first few years—I prayed for a village that would hold us. I prayed for help and for a sense of home and protection. We did rituals and gave offerings for help to come. And, finally, it did.
The villagers didn’t rally around us. It wasn’t like that.
But the land did. The slowness helped her find her rhythm. And the Ancestors…the rituals we created helped me find my footing in this land.
The forest paths, the rhythms of the seasons, the ancestors, the jagged mountains we see from our front door, the ancient stones that have held the prayers of thousands, the thousand-year-old trees that had heard it all before—they are the ones who offered support when we needed it most.
And I have the deep, sweet knowledge that it came, in part, from this place that welcomed us and held us even when its people didn’t quite know how.
Tourists see the sun-drenched coastlines, the leisurely lunches, the slow pace that seems so idyllic. And those things are real—but they’re just one thread in the weave.
When I tell people that kids here still ride bikes through the village, I mean that as a symbol. My own children don’t ride bikes—autistic sensory sensitivities, ADHD impulsivity, and their own beautiful differences mean they walk a different path. But that kind of freedom, safety, and trust still exists here, and that matters.
The stories are in the stones, if you slow down enough to listen.
Nuraghi, sacred wells, and the song of the sea have taught me more than any tourist guide ever could. And now, those stories are part of how I mother, cook, and pray.
What Sardinia Has Given Us (and What It Has Asked)
What Sardinia has given us:
– Time that stretches and spirals rather than runs
– A slowness that heals the nervous system
– Safety—not the kind built within walls, but on knowing all your neighbors
– A relationship with the land that feels reciprocal, not extractive
– Ancient rhythms and voices woven through our daily life
– A chance to root into something older than ourselves
And what it’s asked of us:
– Patience (especially when the paperwork takes six months longer than it should)
– Humility (because being eloquent in one language doesn’t help when you need to argue at the post office)
– Flexibility (because plans often shift, and “afternoon” is a time zone of its own)
– Faith—deep, unshakable faith—that even when it’s hard, this is still your path
This is not a fairytale life. But it is intentional- a magic all its own.
No driving license. Few friends. Constant translation, literally and metaphorically.
But also:
Laughter around the hearth.
Walks among wild herbs.
Starlit skies, bird song, mountains and sea.
Children growing up under the same sun that lit their ancestors’ fields.
Would I Do It Again?
Yes.
A thousand times, yes.
Even when it’s hard.
Especially then.
The Spiral Home
I often think of my grandfather and his family, who left Italy for a better life in America. They wanted something more for their children
And here I am now, coming back across the water with the very same hope.
I remember my grandfather and how he always dreamed of Sicily and returning, even just for vacation, but he never did.
We think migration is a straight line—leave, arrive, begin again.
But maybe it’s more of a spiral.
Maybe the journey we’re on now is the return our ancestors hoped for but never got to make.
Maybe we are the answer to the prayers of the land and our ancestors’ hopes.
Maybe we’re remembering something they carried—something buried deep in the bones.
Maybe we hear the land calling them to come home. Yet, we are the ones who can finally answer.
Sardinia is not always easy.
But she will share her secrets and her home if you open yourself to her call.
And for better or worse, I guess I’m home.
If you’re curious about life in Sardinia and navigating ancestral and seasonal rhythms—subscribe, or stay awhile. I’ll keep the kettle warm.
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