How Moving to Costa Rica Helped My Grief

Grief is often described as an unwelcome change—something that upends your life against your will. It could be anything: the loss of a job, a home, or a loved one. Any unwanted change can bring grief, leaving us feeling powerless and wishing desperately to restore some sense of normalcy, to reclaim the life we had before everything changed.

This powerlessness is exactly what I felt after losing my son, Josh. My life, as I knew it, was irreversibly shattered. I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t go back. Worse yet, I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Who was I without him? Was I still a mom if my son was no longer alive? My identity felt broken. All of my friends had children. How was I supposed to navigate their stories of graduations, engagements, or weddings, knowing my son would never experience these milestones? I retreated from social media. Watching others live their happy, uninterrupted lives was too painful.

All hope and joy seemed to vanish. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling content again. It felt as though I’d been thrust into a bleak, colorless world—one devoid of vibrancy and life. I longed for a way back, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, tapping her heels and yearning for home. Except my home, my technicolor world, was gone. Dorothy returned to her family, but my family would never be the same. Still, I wanted what she wanted—I wanted to go home. Yet, I knew that home no longer existed.

After Josh’s passing, I found myself paralyzed by shame and despair. Some people lean on their routines or find solace in work after a loss, but I wanted to disappear. I felt like a failure for not being able to save my son, for not keeping his mental illness and addiction at bay. For six months, I barely left the house unless it was for therapy, an appointment, or a grief group. Friends dropped by occasionally, bringing food or comfort, but my social circle shrank to just a few people.

When my husband suggested moving to Costa Rica for two years on a Digital Nomad visa, I didn’t hesitate. The thought of leaving behind the sadness, the pitying glances, and the endless questions felt like a chance to reclaim myself. I wanted to rediscover my identity, my sense of adventure, and the beauty of the world. We wouldn’t move for six months, so I gave myself that time to focus fully on my grief, hoping that when we finally arrived, I’d be ready to step outside, explore, and find small moments of joy again. I didn’t expect the pain to end, but I hoped I’d find the strength to begin living again.

In those first months, I started taking baby steps. I ventured outside for short walks in my neighborhood. Eventually, I joined a gym, even though the thought of running into someone I knew filled me with dread. I wasn’t the outgoing, adventurous person I used to be—the one who loved hiking, kayaking, and exploring new places. That version of me felt lost. Each outing, no matter how small, drained me. Afterward, I’d return home, collapse onto my bed, and often cry. Sometimes, I simply lay there, trying to replenish the energy it had taken to leave my safe space. I began to understand how someone could become housebound, too afraid or too exhausted to face the world outside.

A month before the move, my husband and I visited New York. To my surprise, being with family brought comfort. I felt a flicker of joy in revisiting the places where Josh and I had spent time when he was a baby. I wanted to show my husband the New York City landmarks we’d explored together. But everywhere we went, I cried. Seeing the grand entrance to the Met, strolling through Little Italy—each place reminded me of Josh, and guilt followed the brief moments of enjoyment. How could I have any fun in a place Josh would have loved but never got to see?

Still, I began to understand: I needed distance. I needed to go away for a long time.

A month later, we sold nearly everything we owned and moved 3,000 miles away to Costa Rica to start anew. I felt hopeful, even optimistic. I convinced myself it was impossible to feel sad in Costa Rica, with its stunning beaches and lush landscapes. But on our first night in our new home, reality hit me. I felt heavy with regret. How foolish I’d been to think I could leave my grief behind. It followed me, as raw and painful as ever. I missed my friends, my family, and most of all, I missed Josh.

The next morning, I walked along the beach. The sand was soft beneath my feet, the water a breathtaking blue-green. When my husband finished work, we walked the beach together, marveling at the beauty around us. For the first time in almost a year, I found myself wanting more—more walks, more hikes, more connection with the natural world. Slowly, the desire to explore returned. A hike up to an abandoned hotel in the mountains marked a turning point. For the first time, I didn’t just step outside—I sought an adventure.

Costa Rica enveloped me in beauty. The lush mountains, the vibrant flowers, the golden sunsets—it all felt like something from a storybook. Birds whistled cheerful tunes, and the world around me seemed to glow. A small seed of hope began to take root. I wasn’t “better,” but I was starting to heal. I immersed myself in new experiences, found solace in nature, and began connecting with others who shared my grief. I started blogging, volunteering, and sharing my story with other grieving mothers. It was hard work, but it was transformative.

The holidays were still excruciating. That first year, I avoided them altogether, yet they still hit me like a tidal wave. I regressed, isolating myself and battling the physical symptoms of early grief. But by January, I felt like I’d emerged from a storm cellar after a tornado, relieved to see the sun again and ready to continue rebuilding my “new normal.”

As I approach the second anniversary of losing Josh, I’ve come to accept that grief doesn’t go away. It doesn’t get smaller—but I’ve grown around it. I’m stronger now. I’ve learned to navigate the waves of sadness and prepare for the hard days, allowing myself the space to retreat when I need to and rejoin the world when I’m ready. I’ve rebuilt my life piece by piece.

Today, I’m a writer, a grief educator, and a teacher. I’ve found meaning in sharing my story and connecting with others who’ve experienced profound loss. My husband and I are planning our next adventure, moving to Spain and Croatia for the second year of our Digital Nomad journey. I’m looking forward to hiking, exploring, and meeting new people. My life without Josh has found meaning—not because I’ve made sense of his loss, but because I’ve stopped trying to. I no longer ask the unanswerable “what if” questions. Instead, I focus on taking care of myself—mentally, physically, and emotionally—and channeling my grief into creativity and connection.

I still miss Josh every day. I’d give anything for just one more moment with him. But I’ve learned to embrace the beauty of this new life, to welcome the changes I’ve created, and to carry him with me in my heart. This new world I’ve built is different—irrevocably so—but it’s vibrant and meaningful in its own way. And in that, I find peace.