I couldn’t read the exit sign on the pharmacy door. I stood there, squinting at where I knew the door should be, everything a blur of shapes and light. I’d driven there (Lord knows I shouldn’t have been on the road) to pick up medication for my eyes. Thank God the pharmacy was close to my home. In that moment, not being able to read which door was which, none of my accomplishments mattered. Not my business, not my home, not the life I’d built over nearly 30 years as an entrepreneur. I just wanted to see.
For most of my adult life, I’d lived in homes ranging from about 1,400 to 2,000 square feet. I’ve always loved beauty and having things around me that felt like me. Not by anyone else’s standards, but my own. I’ve never been a trend follower. Over the years, I developed my own style and surrounded myself with things that reflected it.
30-Year Entrepreneur
As an entrepreneur for nearly 30 years, long before working from home was common, my home always needed to accommodate work. At a minimum, I needed two bedrooms or a bedroom plus a dedicated office. Space mattered. It supported how I lived and how I identified myself. I was working as a mobile notary, building websites, and in the early stages of launching Buy Without Agents. My life had a rhythm, a purpose, a structure.
Then came the diagnosis: corneal dystrophy.
My eyesight deteriorated quickly. Everything became blurry. I couldn’t read, write, or drive. The work I’d built my life around became impossible. That moment at the pharmacy door was when it all became real. I couldn’t even see well enough to find my way out of a building. I couldn’t read signs.
I was living alone in Las Vegas, far from family. I had no real support system nearby. As my vision continued to decline, I knew the climate was contributing to my eye issues. The dry heat that so many people loved was slowly destroying what was left of my sight. I also knew that if something like this happened again, I didn’t want to be alone anymore. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was afraid.
So I made the decision to move to the Pacific Northwest. The climate would be easier on my eyes, and I would be closer to family. It wasn’t a choice I made lightly. It meant leaving behind everything I’d built, everything I knew, everything that had been home for 11 years.
As soon as my eyesight improved enough to function, I started packing. I went through my belongings one by one, selling or giving things away. I wanted to keep only the necessary items that aligned with who I thought I was. But losing my sight had forced me to slow down, and in that stillness, I started reevaluating my life. At 66 years old, being near family and friends mattered more to me than stuff.
Around this same time, a good friend kept sending me tiny house videos. I found them interesting, but honestly, tiny living felt very far from my reality. I was used to living large. I had a lot of stuff. I needed an office. The idea of living in a few hundred square feet seemed impossible. But the videos stayed in the back of my mind, as a ‘nice’ thing to do, and that’s where it would stay.
The Move
I packed what I could fit in my car, put the rest in storage in Las Vegas, and prepared to leave. I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other side of this decision. I just knew I couldn’t stay where I was.
Looking back now, I see that moment at the pharmacy door as the beginning of something bigger than a move. It was the beginning of understanding what really mattered. When you can’t see the world around you, you start to see yourself more clearly. And sometimes, that’s exactly what needs to happen.
**Have you ever had a moment when your health forced you to see your life differently? I’d love to hear about it in the comments below.**
