People don't wake up one morning and decide to leave everything behind. It happens slowly, then all at once — in the quiet moments between who you were and who you know you're meant to become. For us, it began with a heaviness we couldn't name. Routine that felt too tight. Days that blurred. Loss that hit too close. A world that suddenly felt small when we knew, deep down, it wasn't. And then there was Leo — two years old, wide-eyed, soft-hearted, and soaking in the world wit

There is a strange kind of magic that happens in the space before a big life change. Suitcases half-packed. Lists everywhere. A home slowly shifting from lived-in to let-go. A toddler sensing something is different, even if he can't name it. A grandmother folding clothes with hands that have raised two generations. We haven't left yet. But in so many ways, the journey has already begun. People keep asking us the same question: "A whole year around the world? With a toddler?

There are only seven days left. Seven sunrises. Seven sleeps. Seven chances to stand inside the life we've always known before we step into one we've only ever imagined. The house feels different now. Not empty — but in transition. Like it knows we're leaving. Suitcases sit open on the floor, half-packed, half-waiting. Leo's tiny shoes are beside my mum's sandals. Passport wallets rest next to a growing pile of memories we're still deciding whether to take or leave behind. It