I came to Colombia intending to tell other people’s stories. Instead, the Pain Demon commandeered the driver’s seat and made Michael and me the story. What began as a late-life reinvention has become a medical crisis, an uncomfortable request for help, and an unexpected lesson in what community can still mean.
RUNNING AWAY TO COLOMBIA—PT5
A successful procedure briefly gives me back the ability to walk. When the pain returns and our support system begins to change, Michael and I must confront what comes next.
RUNNING AWAY TO COLOMBIA—PT4
I came to Colombia to keep moving. Instead, walking gives way to pain, a bright blue rollator, medical appointments, and limits I can no longer ignore.
RUNNING AWAY FROM COLOMBIA—PT 3
Michael and I arrive in Bucaramanga with four suitcases and a one-month Airbnb, then take a chance on an imperfect apartment with good bones and begin turning it into a home.
RUNNING AWAY FROM COLOMBIA—PT 2
As strangers carry our belongings away at an estate sale, a lifetime becomes price tags, four suitcases, and the irreversible decision to leave America for Colombia.
RUNNING AWAY FROM COLOMBIA—PT 1
After a spinal procedure lets me walk again, I take stock of an unreliable body, a changing definition of independence, and why Michael and I chose Colombia for the final chapter of our lives.
Pain, the Brain, Aging, and Migración Colombia It’s 2 a.m., and I have to pee. That’s just about the simplest, least glamorous human problem imaginable for a 69-year-old man…except that my body has recently added a new rule: you don’t get to do simple things anymore without negotiating for them first. I reach for assistance…
Quick clarification (because this matters): This post is not about leaving Colombia or “moving back to the U.S.” This is a border run — a temporary exit required by visa timing — with a practical stop in Florida. From there, Michael continues on to Kansas City for a few weeks to house-sit and see friends…
Venezuela: Close enough. Far away. I’m watching Venezuela from northeastern Colombia, from a city called Bucaramanga, tucked into the eastern Andes. On a map, this looks close to the Venezuelan border, and it is. Close enough that one could be forgiven for assuming Caracas must be nearby. But maps lie. Or rather, they flatten things…
As I embark on this long-awaited launch and rebranding of myself, I have to get some things off my chest, starting with the obligatory AI disclosure. Habits, intentions, and resources. It’s 3 a.m. on a Sunday. This is the best time of the day for me. I don’t need a lot of hours of sleep…
