When the Dream Knocks and You Can’t Open the Door

A story of unexpected detours, deep love, and holding space for what’s still possible

Photo by Stephanie Klepacki on Unsplash

I was hired for my dream job—and had to let it go. This wasn’t just a missed opportunity. It was an actual dream come true that I had to walk away from, thanks to my own downfall. Well, sort of.

And yes, it hurt.

I’m always on the lookout for adventure, and with that, a way to bankroll it. Back in the mid-90s, I discovered the Caretaker Gazette, a newsletter that connects people with house-sitting and property care opportunities.

One story that stuck with me featured a family of seven—a husband, wife, and five kids who’d grown up living in a castle in Scotland. For nearly 20 years, they raised their children there while caretaking the property. The Gazette profiled their lives, painting a vivid picture of what it was like to call a castle home. It lit a fire in me. I wanted that kind of life—slow travel, the kind where you actually live somewhere new and immerse yourself in it.

So I started applying for positions.

One role involved joining a research team in the remote Utah wilderness, assisting a lead archaeology professor. I’d be responsible for maintaining the camp, cooking, and caretaking the living quarters—my own yurt included—for an entire year. I got the job but backed out, realizing that yurt life with zero amenities was a little more “immersive” than I was ready for.

Another opportunity was as an operations hostess for a trophy hunting ranch in south Texas. At the time, I was with Toxic Guy, who was deep into trophy deer hunting. I really applied for him. The idea was that we’d work as a couple—he’d manage the daily operations, and I’d handle the guest-facing side. We had no experience, but we threw in anyway. We didn’t get the job, but we did get a discounted five-day hunt, plus three extra days. Toxic Guy, too much of a perfectionist who wanted the perfect rack, never bagged a deer. The owner, not wanting anyone to leave without a trophy to show off, extended our stay—but that’s a whole other story.

The point is, the Caretaker Gazette offers unique chances to live and work in interesting corners of the world—some paid, some just in exchange for room and board, a few volunteer positions.

In 2010, I finally landed a position managing an estate home that also included oversight of a 41-unit mobile home park and a small mom-and-pop beach hotel. The job didn’t pay, but it came with room, board, a vehicle, and plenty of perks. I picked up accounting skills, got better at dealing with people, and saw how the hospitality business works behind the scenes.

By 2018, the housing crunch hit Reno/Tahoe hard. Once again, I turned to the Gazette to find caretaking roles in exchange for housing. Opportunities were rare, but I noticed a pattern: bed and breakfasts and small inns kept popping up. That’s when it clicked.

Innkeeping was the perfect way to cover housing and still get paid for being, essentially, a glorified hostess, and a golden ticket out of casino gaming.

But here’s the catch: post-COVID, most listings demand a lot for very little. Too many want everything—cooking, cleaning, guest services—for almost nothing in return. So I kept looking. Most listings didn’t spark my interest.

Until two weeks ago. That’s when I found it.

The perfect job

It had everything I’d been waiting for. A small, boutique inn tucked away in a charming remote part of New Mexico, at the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, 60 miles from the nearest stoplight, in an area I wasn’t familiar but instantly researched and fell in love with. The landscape was stunning—majestic mountains, clean air, and trails I could hike and explore after breakfast service. The job came with private living quarters, flexible hours, and a role that felt tailor-made: managing the guest experience, coordinating meals, keeping the place spiffed and shined, and being that warm, welcoming presence guests remember long after they’ve gone home.

It paid well and had a clear beginning and end. It was a six-month commitment. It was a way for me to get out of Michigan and get paid to do so. It was also a scouting opportunity for relocating when we leave in June, 2026.

But it wasn’t just the job description that made it feel like a match. It was the tone of the owners. They weren’t looking for someone to “do it all” for scraps. They were thoughtful, passionate about their business, and seemed to genuinely value the person stepping into the role.

They saw the position as a partnership, not a transaction.

For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was choosing something for me—not for someone else, not to prove anything, and not out of desperation. Just a good fit, at the right time.

And I got it.

I forgot I was married, for just a moment

The interview felt more like a conversation than a grilling. We laughed. We connected. They liked my experience, my energy, and the fact that I wasn’t afraid of hard work. They offered me the position just a couple of days later, and I said yes without hesitation. It felt like the kind of “yes” you don’t second-guess.

Photo by Raychel Sanner on Unsplash

But life, as it often does, threw a curveball

Not even ten hours after accepting the offer, I landed in the ER—dehydrated, shaky, and unsure of what was happening. What I assumed was a simple stomach bug turned into something more serious. I was told to rest. To cancel travel plans. To pay attention to my symptoms. Suddenly, six months of early mornings, long shifts, and remote living didn’t seem so doable.

I tried to convince myself I’d bounce back in time. That I could push through and show up ready. But while I was lying in bed, weak and feeling sorry for myself, something slammed into me with the kind of force that nearly brought me to my knees—emotionally, not just physically.

Carl was there. Holding my head as I threw up. Offering me sips of 7UP and soda crackers. Sitting by the bed and sharing his love, his calm, his presence. All this while he was on his only two days off after ten straight days on the road. And that’s when it hit me—really hit me.

I would’ve been leaving him for six long months. The remote part of the job meant limited communication. And while being on my own wasn’t the issue—I’ve always been independent—leaving my husband, the man I waited a lifetime to find, the one I still can’t believe I get to love, suddenly felt like too much.

What was I thinking when I said yes?

Did I forget I was married?

Carl had given me his full support when I told him about the opportunity. He’s like that. Almost to a fault, he just wants me to be happy. He knows how badly I want to get out of Michigan and back to the desert and mountains I love. And I knew when I married him that Michigan was part of the package. He’s living his dream job here, and I signed on for the ride—willingly, lovingly.

But five years is a long time to feel displaced. I’ve tried to adjust. I’ve tried to bloom where I’m planted. And yet, lying there in bed, it became so clear: the timing has to be right for both of us. I had been so focused on chasing a dream, I forgot to check in with the part of me that cherishes my marriage even more.

Had I not gotten sick, I might never have stopped to think about any of this. I would’ve gone, fulfilled my contract—because that’s what I do. I follow through.

But at what cost?

So I let it go

Not because I was weak. But because I finally saw the bigger picture.

Letting go used to feel like failure. Like backing out or giving up. But aging, and loving someone deeply, teaches you to pay closer attention to timing, to health, and to the cost of your choices beyond just yourself.

Resilience doesn’t always mean pushing through. Sometimes it means knowing when to pause and listen. Getting sick forced me to stop. To reconsider. And as painful as it was to turn down something I truly wanted, I know I made the right decision.

For now.

But here’s what I also know: the dream didn’t disappear. I still believe in the kind of life where work feels like purpose, where guests become stories, and where the right path may curve but never completely vanishes. If anything, I’m more certain than ever that when the timing is right, when I’m healthy, grounded, and fully present, I’ll be ready. Completely.

Photo by Meredith Fontana on Unsplash

Have you ever had to hit pause on something you loved, not because you didn’t want it, but because you weren’t quite ready yet?