I’ve been quiet for a while, not because I’m at a loss for words–rather, I’ve been purposely choosing not to add to the noise in the world. And, well– I also needed more fantastic sandwiches in my life. Let me explain.
Upon return to the U.S. last year, I hit the ground running with a slew of speaking engagements, leadership seminars, and podcasts, then met a bucket list milestone of becoming a best-selling author while sorting through a basement full of storage boxes we hadn’t seen in a decade. Once our overseas shipment was settled, we fostered a Great Pyrenees to further cultivate home and build community, and I got caught up in the spin cycle of busyness as teen and dog mom, wife, and entrepreneur. And frankly? I became as tired and uninspired as a soggy sandwich.
Nothing was wrong that I could pinpoint–I’m in good health and blessed with an amazing husband and son. Admittedly, living in the DC area under this administration has been trying, and our third-culture son was navigating a rocky transition into 8th grade as a kid who looks American, but doesn’t culturally feel like one. (For example, Ramsay crushed his test on European and Asian Geography, but was unsure about the location of Kansas). There are frequent “American” discoveries for him, like when I ran the garbage disposal and he tore down the stairs, yelling, “Mom! What’s wrong? What was that?!” (Raised overseas, he’d never heard one). Like most foreign service kids, he continues to overcome, adapt, and persevere, and we couldn’t be prouder.
Overall, things were falling into place, so, why the soggy sandwich feeling? Perhaps it was midlife creeping in, or my nervous system resetting after years of being in survival mode overseas, but I knew intuitively that whatever it was, I needed to honor a season of slowing down to refuel the energy reserves and coffers of inspiration.
Have you ever moved through your days on auto-pilot until something spurs the desire for more oomph, more wow factor–more “fantastic sandwiches” in your life? I don’t mean a mediocre deli sandwich, but a finger-licking good sandwich that is deeply satisfying with the bread toasted just right, a thin slice of unblemished avocado, crisp lettuce, perfectly grilled protein, and a dressing that sings…the kind of sandwich that makes you say the word delicious out loud even if no one else is around.
As anthropologist Zora Neal Hurston said, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” I had more questions than answers and I wanted to stop, sit quietly, and assess to see what clues the universe had in store for me. Like an off-season hibernation, I spent late spring and summer retreating and turning inward whenever possible, creating sanctuary (both mentally and inside our home) through walks beneath towering trees, creating cozy recipes, practicing yoga, devouring library books (most recently, Frederik Backman’s “My Friends”), collaging with mixed-media art supplies, and journaling.
When school released last summer, Ramsay and I went road-tripping 1980’s style (Brad flew in to meet us when he could) and had a blast, soaking up sunshine, swimming, and moving through our days at a slower pace. Highlights were traditional camps, time with Mama, family, and friends, and an Atlanta Braves Game on the 4th with incredible fireworks. Also, we sought out folk art galleries, took surf lessons, stopped on a whim to take photographs, and discovered new places, like Lake Chatuge, where we fished with glowing night crawlers then witnessed a full, red moon rise over the water.
The week before High School, Rams wrapped up a basketball camp and asked to visit to NYC to see Hamilton and friends living there, so we made a last-minute trip on Amtrak.
Turns out, sometimes, we just need to give ourselves permission to take a break and recalibrate. (Why is that so challenging for some of us)? No one can operate long-term on full-tilt. As my friend Shari says, “In mid-life, like a pilot tweaking the dials in the cockpit, we just need to listen and adjust as needed,” and wisely, “how you start your morning sets the tone for your days.”
After a fun summer with plenty of introspection and rest (and a full medical physical), there were no big revelations––I just needed more self-care and mindfulness, starting with a better morning routine. I now wake up and stretch before reaching for my phone and drink hot tea with two hands–not while multi-tasking– but sitting quietly with intention, even if for just a few minutes. I am also making more careful choices about the food and information I’m consuming, which has made a positive, impactful difference in my body and mind.
Now, with autumn afternoons marked by crisp blue skies and gold and garnet-tinged trees whose leaves whisper to the ground, we await the announcement of our next country assignment. In the interim, I’m working on my fiction novel, making more fantastic sandwiches, and sipping hot tea before strategizing about what’s next. Stayed tuned!
Do you give yourself permission to rest? I’d love to hear about what kind of “fantastic sandwich” moments you factor into your life to bring you joy. Please comment below.
The morning after Christmas, I heard the comforting chatter of Brad and Ramsay in the kitchen. Seated on the living room sofa, the cold pressed in against the window panes. The thermometer outside of Mama’s dark green cottage registered 28 degrees. Sleepily, I watched plumes rise from the chimney at a neighbor’s house, silhouetted against the soft glow of dawn. A cardinal darted into a magnolia tree and the clock on the mantle piece rhythmically announced the seconds like a countdown: tick. tick. tick. One week until boarding school.
We celebrated New Year’s with friends. I chose a word for the year- intention-because of its definition, “stretching toward a new way of being.” Oh, yes, 2024 would bring plenty of challenges.
January 2nd, leaving Ramsay at school was downright heart wrenching, hugging our only child goodbye at age eleven: so young, so vulnerable. The dorm staff could not have been kinder or more supportive, but I could hardly breathe when Brad drove us off campus, like someone had taken my air away. I sobbed in long inhales and exhales like strange notes of an accordion. Brad talked me down several times that night from driving back to get Ramsay.
In the following days, our tight-knit family scattered like jacks on a map- Brad and our dog Biscuit back in Gabon, me living out of a suitcase stateside, yet hours from Rams. The school counselor assured us our anxiety and questioning our decision was common, so normal- we had to give the homesickness time. “Wait a month before visiting,” they suggested. With a leaden heart, I practiced yoga, took walks, leapt at a glass of wine at cocktail hour with my mother, and immersed myself in writing my fiction manuscript. The absence of Ramsay’s happy spirit was all encompassing and I impatiently waited for those 5-minute intervals when I got to speak to him on the phone, a fake smile pasted on my face. Be strong. Don’t cry til you hang up, I told myself each and every call- a pep talk that rarely worked those first few weeks.
Days passed without seeing his face, just the occasional text that gave me no sense of what life was like for him. Was he sleeping? Making friends? Doing okay in school? “Yes, he’s doing fine,” school staff encouraged, but I was lost, mothering from afar. Desperate to bring us all back under one roof, I day-dreamed of buying a house a few miles from the school. Maybe I could apply for a job there and beg Brad to quit the State Department. We’re serving our country, I told myself. The coup that led to this wasn’t our family’s fault. Count our blessings. We can bear anything for a year. Pretend it’s COVID again.
When I felt like crumbling under the weight of missing my child, I reminded myself it’s temporary, that Rams was getting an excellent education we could not otherwise afford him, and that this was an American experience he’d never had, having been raised overseas. I shifted perspective with positive affirmations- trust that thislife is happening FOR us, not TO us, and, especially, I often whispered internally- he’s safe and in a caring place. My mommy guilt serves no one.
It was impossible to imagine that weeks later, we would have days without tears and Ramsay would be well-adjusted to dorm life and school abroad, but we all transitioned to a better place. I got to visit Rams after a month and although I was so choked up when I hugged him that I could only whisper, “Hey sugar, missed you,” I could tell he was settling in well. We gathered his sheets, bathrobe, uniforms and loads of clothes in his dorm room to take to the AirBnB rental. I threw out a stale, partially-eaten bread roll on his desk and poured out a murky cup of steeped-for-days tea.
Rams and I chatted incessantly and indulged in little celebrations- sparklers and hot chocolate, a mini-pinata to break open, and a snow-tubing trip. I was determined to live in the moment all weekend as the deadline of returning him to campus pushed in like a storm on the horizon. He asked for, and received, new tennis shoes, a basketball, and a haircut. We took long walks, watched funny videos together, and cooked his favorite meals. He enthusiastically shared his new knowledge of race cars and sports teams.
During a steak dinner out, I detected Ramsay’s slight new southern accent as we laughed and played cards. (Ramsay won, not because I let him, but because he is a card shark like his Gran). I took breaks from folding laundry that night to listen to his soft breathing as he slept. Our weekend together released me from the constant fretting. It was evident his boarding school community was providing a caring net to fall into. My heart swelled with pride for this courageous fellow who had surmounted this monumental life change much better than I.
Weeks later, Brad flew to the U.S. and the three of us had a wonderful Spring Break with Ramsay. Rams had just taken his first unaccompanied flight to see his Godparents, whom he adores. “Were you scared?” I asked. “Mom, come on,” Rams replied. (This was a silly question for a kid who had been on 30 flights by age 5). “It was awesome- I got to see the cockpit and they gave me guac and tortilla chips.”
Hibachi night with GranIn the Captain’s SeatA Hockey Game in GA
A few days later, it was time for me to return to Gabon. It’s just the three of us now in Libreville- me, Brad, and Biscuit. The first couple of days home, at 3:45pm, my heart filled with anticipation, waiting for Ramsay to burst through the door after school like he used to. Biscuit, too, seemed to remember our old routine and sat by the entrance, tail wagging. We needed a new schedule. To push through that witching hour, I began afternoon beach walks with Biscuit in tow, repeating adapt, adjust, and keep looking ahead.
In our absence, cherished friends and family hosted Ramsay for visits, fueling him with love and food, for which we are deeply grateful. Rams made the baseball team, has played laser tag, and got a signed puck at a hockey game. He does his own laundry, irons his clothes, does chores at the dorm, and is soaking up learning without language barriers. He chipped a front tooth, took it in stride, and coordinated with the school nurse to have it repaired at the dentist. He continues to amaze us with his positivity, resourcefulness, and gumption.
Recently, Rams sent a quick voice message on text- further evidence that he was finding joy there. On his weekly grocery trip back from Wal-Mart, there was abundant laughter in the background from his dorm buddies. Classic rock played and Rams said he was eating a Subway sandwich on the bus, mentioning between bites that he liked this song, by the way, and could we hear it? And oh, yeah, we’d see a credit card transaction for LED lights for his room, and he hoped that was okay. He recounted that he’d seen Aquaman at a real movie theater and recently learned the concept of “family style” dishes. “Mom- have you heard of this, family style eating? When the bowl is empty, they just refill it- it’s amazing!”
Ramsay’s enthusiasm was contagious and Brad and I laughed out loud, content that our family had shifted out of a place of heartache about boarding school into a place more flourishing. Soon, summer break arrives, and once again, we will be four.
Dear readers, apologies for my radio silence. Truthfully, I’ve needed time to process some lifestyle changes, but don’t worry, there’s a happy ending (and lots of photos with smiles below- keep reading). Have a seat on my virtual soul sofa and I’ll fill you in.
30 August, my son Ramsay and I were due to return from Atlanta to Gabon after summer break. I was sound asleep at my mother’s house when the phone rang in the middle of the night. Unknown Number from Washington, D.C.
“Press 1 if you are safe,” the State Department computer call said.
I did so, and then the line went dead.
My pulse raced. If the government was accounting for the Americans posted to Libreville, something had gone awry- and my husband, head of security for the American Embassy in Gabon, would be in the thick of whatever emergency was happening. Presidential elections had been held a few days earlier. My last update was that officials were still counting the votes. I texted and emailed Brad. It was five a.m. in Africa. I knew he’d be awake, preparing for potential unrest after the results were announced.
Half an hour passed. No response. An hour. No response. I tried his work number. I messaged every app, including Facebook, which he never checked, but just in case… still nothing. I texted friends in Libreville with young children, who’d be up, bleary-eyed, having coffee. Not a word…from anyone. Panic set in. Unbeknownst to me, Gabon had gone dark: no internet, no cell service.
Forty minutes later, a message pinged my cell from Air France, “Time to Check-In for Your Flight.” My intuition told me I wouldn’t be needing that boarding pass. I ignored the message, wondering how close to takeoff I could cancel.
Another Unknown Number rang. I gripped the phone, then sighed with relief. It was Brad- on a satellite call. He was safe at the embassy, as were all mission personnel. There’d been a military takeover in the early morning hours with gunfire, but so far, no fatalities reported. The Bongo family’s reign, toppled after half a century… would there be a counter-coup? Gabon was on tenterhooks. Curfews were imposed.
“There are reports the borders are closing. Stay in the States until I know more,” my husband instructed. “I’ll check in as soon as I can. Gotta go. I love you.” He hung up.
I sat in stunned silence. The words closed borders echoed in my head, reminiscent of Covid. When would we be able to return home- weeks? months? Ramsay and I were no longer on vacation- we were now in exile from our country of residence.
As news unfolded, it was determined there was no longer an adequate school (one held to American standards) for Ramsay to return to in Gabon. I darted to Barnes & Noble to buy a “Summer Bridge” sixth-grade activity book as a loose guide. Ramsay and I began a very haphazard online program that week with me as an unsure teacher.
We were both delighted to ditch it all for an impromptu visit to Disney World and Universal with our cousins. Ramsay had never been, and we needed distraction big time. A few days of roller coasters and wild rides turned out to be the perfect antidote for our churning thoughts.
To our great relief, ten days later, Gabon’s borders re-opened. With suitcases packed and new flights booked, I said to one of Mama’s neighbors, “I might be getting too old for this Foreign Service lifestyle. I crave more stability in our lives.”
“Tracy, most people need more stability than a coup d’etat,” he replied with an amused smile.
Once happily reunited as a family in Libreville (including Biscuit, our Golden Retriever who adores everyone yet retrieves nothing), Brad, Ramsay and I had several serious discussions to chart a new future plan. With a river of tears, we collectively decided the best course of action was to send Ramsay to boarding school.
“The State Department will send you anywhere- England, Europe, South Africa…it’s your choice,” we told our son who’d spent his life overseas. We had to narrow down options quickly. Rams chose America, close to family. We spent weeks virtually touring schools and submitting copious applications. We are proud to report that Ramsay was accepted to his top choice in the U.S. and will start in January 2024.
Outwardly, we celebrated. Inwardly, I fell apart. I expected our only son to leave home at 18, not in the 6th grade. I’ve had big emotions to work through. With Brad’s selfless encouragement, I planned an adventure for Ramsay before his departure from the continent. (Brad wasn’t able to go with us). Zambia seemed to have everything we were looking for; a safe country, abundant wildlife, not too far of a flight, and plenty of magic with stunning Victoria Falls.
On the eve of Halloween, from plane seats 21 A and B, Ramsay and I gazed at billowing cloud formations and the vast earth below. A sense of wonderment I’d been missing returned and I knew we’d made the right decision. “Enjoy your holiday,” the captain announced as we stepped onto the tarmac in Livingstone. Enjoy it, we did. Our ten-day trip was even better than expected. Here are the highlights:
Ramsay loved that our Bushtracks driver from the airport was named Arson, who told us the local currency was called “kwacha.” He showed us a baboon crossing the road on our way to the Avani Hotel, where zebras grazed like horses at the entrance. “Look! The baby zebra’s stripes are brown,” Rams noted. We were greeted by tribesmen who sang and danced outside the lobby.
Our room had a view of watery reflections in a pond, where tall birds fished and dried their wings. Popping yellow weaver birds swung on their nests, artfully grouped like a cluster of grapes hanging over the water. A monitor lizard slithered from a rock and a curious monkey peered into our window. Was this place real? Big grins spread across our faces.
We hastily unpacked. With binoculars and a camera in tow, we walked the 15 minutes to the Falls. The scenery was so vibrant that it felt staged; a giraffe lumbered down our path, along with groups of stately impala. We signed the guest book at the park entrance and paused at a statue of Dr. David Livingstone, the well-known Scottish missionary explorer. Gold grasses and plunging terrain flanked the sides of Knife Bridge on our way to Danger Point, where mist rose from the thunderous waterfall in the distance. It was dry season, exposing large swaths of rock face between the cascades, but still impressive. Local kids asked for selfies gleefully shouting, “Welcome to Zambia!”
On the way to the Elephant Cafe Sanctuary, our jet boat captain imparted, “We’ll be dipping and darting around rapids and rocks for 13 kilometers. I assure you this is not for my entertainment- I’ve lost a few propellers over the years. Hold on.”
“They look soft, but their skin is like rough wood, with prickly hair,” Ramsay observed as we fed snacks to three orphaned elephants. After a good hand sanitizing, we ate one of my favorite meals on the trip: cold bell pepper soup with tamarind coulis and edible flowers, river bream infused with coconut and tarragon, sauteed zucchini and carrots, and a rice medley with chopped pistachios, raisins, and fresh mango. For dessert: passion fruit ice cream with a caramelized hazelnut wafer. “Mom, watch that bum-ble bee.” I didn’t get the emphasis at first until I saw a bee zipping into the backside of a wooden elephant statue on the table. Ramsay cracked himself up in a way that only an eleven-year-old can. I was in stitches.
A few days later, on the Zambesi, our boat docked next to the African Queen (likely not the original from the film, but lovely). Ramsay climbed a thin metal ladder to the fishing boat’s seat on the roof. “It’s a bird paradise,” he said as we motored by herons, spoonbills, storks, Egyptian geese, bee-eaters, and lilac-breasted rollers. “There’s a croc,” said the river safari guide, pointing to a sinister set of eyes watching us… next to a bigger set of floating eyes topped with ears: a hippo.
No one swims in the Zambesi River, and for good reason. When we stopped for a picnic in the bush, the guide walked the perimeter of our lunch site to check for predators before allowing us to disembark. The guide gave us cushions to put on tree stumps for chairs. We ate in contented silence, one with the sounds of nature. “This is so cool!” Rams whispered. I agreed.
On the return boat ride, we spotted warthogs, kudu, and water buffalo. Then, a special herd of elephants descended a hill to the water’s edge to drink and wash. Ramsay counted them. “115!” Something moved up the river. What were we looking at? Something odd was bobbing on the surface. We marveled at another herd of elephants, swimming underwater, with just their spines and trunks visible, like snorkels.
That evening, Ramsay ordered an exotic meal: crocodile tail medallions with lemon sauce. “What do you think?” I asked. “Kind of like overdone tuna steak mixed with chicken,” he described.
We were spoiled with wildlife before our Botswana trip, but got an adrenaline rush when the safari jeep driver, Maude, announced she’d received word lions were a few kilometers away. “We are going to speed up to catch up to them,” she said before flooring the jeep. “We’re chasing lions, can you believe it?” I asked Rams. He gripped the camera lens in the front seat next to Maude, ready. I took mental snapshots of the acacia trees, the deep red earth, and the wide-open sky. My lips were parched and I was covered in dust, happier than I’d been in weeks, chasing away my own figurative lions. The safari jeep slowed. We held our breath, close enough to see the whiskey-gold flecks in the lion’s eyes.
After a long wait at immigration, our tour bus returned to Zambia. Ramsay and I laughed at the name of a local market, “Shams.” For dinner, we attended a “Boma,” set in a traditional village with round huts and thatched roofs around a fire pit. Ramsay and I met a basket weaver, a storyteller, a face painter, and a sangoma (practitioner of ancestral spirits and traditional medicine). The witch doctor held up a rhino horn and beaded stick, predicting a “white shadow” (as opposed to a “dark shadow”) for our futures full of light.
Masked dancers, bongo drummers, and singers in tribal clothing took the stage (and invited dinner guests to join-guess who did)? Ramsay nearly dropped his fork when a tribesman ate fire from the end of a stick. I was equally impressed by one of our picnic table mates, Dean, who quietly revealed he’d been to 80 countries. He looked young. I was curious (and envious) how his job in IT allowed for so much freedom but didn’t ask. His 2025 goal was to travel to his 100th nation. Before bed, Ramsay and I reflected on Dean’s goal and the interesting people we’d met on our trip, like the medical duo on safari from India and a sign-language interpreter at the breakfast buffet. “Zambia is a lot like Georgia. Come as strangers, leave as friends,” Ramsay remarked.
On our last day, we visited Livingstone Island. We disembarked from the boat and followed the footsteps of Dr. Livingstone, single file on a sandy path through the dry brush. Red flowers dotted the landscape, erupting through the brown leaves like fireworks. The heat was oppressive, the kind that bakes and makes you seek a shady spot to lie down. I swatted away flies and silently begged for a breeze. “Loo With A View, anyone?” We were shown a tented bathroom that opened to the Zambesi River.
We formed a human chain to crab sideways across rocky terrain into the water until we reached a rope line and swam across toward Devil’s Pool. The meaning on the guide’s T-shirt “Life on the Edge” didn’t register with me until we swam to that edge; thrilling and daunting as we peered over the lip of the rock, one by one, with the guide holding our ankles. A majestic rainbow arced in the mist. It was exhilarating, being so close to thundering water. It rushed powerfully over the ledge in volumes like I’d never heard or seen. I felt alive. It was Ramsay’s turn. I held his hand tightly until the guide had a hold of him. Ramsay’s smile said it all: wow, this was a moment! (A parenting decision later questioned by my husband in jest).
At sunset, Ramsay stopped outside by a hotel wall and created a shadow puppet that looked uncannily like a real bird. He butterflied his hands together, making it take flight; a metaphor for our time in Zambia that had come to an end. I wished for this adventure and connection with wildlife, joyful people, festive music, and magic to carry us forward through the next several months of transition.
