By: JaTon Kılınç

I woke up every day to an amazing view of the sea. I watched beautiful sunsets, drank wine at three in the afternoon—sometimes two if I’m honest (hey, who needs five o’clock when time is your own, right?)—sipped Turkish tea at random hours of the night, and never set an alarm because I didn’t have a job to check into.

In fact, mes amies, the only things I did with any real consistency were brushing my teeth, making the bed, and enjoying a hot cup of coffee around the same time each morning. Alright, I confess—I meditated too, though even that had no schedule.

For instance: if someone at the grocery store made me angry—meditation time. If an irate driver yelled at me in Turkish—meditation time. Basically, any time I was having “a moment,” it was time to light the sage, strike a Buddha pose, and connect with my higher self.

Okay, I’m half-kidding… and getting off track.

When I left my job in the States, the goal was simple: enjoy myself first, then get down to business. We’d traveled overseas with a comfortable cushion, so I didn’t have to worry about bills or food. And thanks to my Turkish husband, residency wasn’t a problem—no need to dodge immigration officers (though I like to think my old high-school track legs could still give them a run for their money).

But slowly, I began to realize something: after so many years in the workforce, I struggled with personal time management and structure.

I don’t mean I couldn’t manage time—I mean I couldn’t manage myself. Give me a project with deadlines and I’ll crush it. In fact, that was always one of my strongest assets at work—I often finished early. (Okay, part of that came from my competitive streak. I like to win.)

When I began this new chapter, I thought having nothing to do would feel amazing. Honestly, I didn’t even remember what that felt like. The last time I could just frolic around the house, I was probably seven.

I’ve always been a free spirit—never one to thrive under rigid structure or the time constraints most corporate jobs demand. The roles I loved most had flexible start times or were fully remote. Yet when I finally had all the time in the world, I didn’t know what to do with it. Not in the dreamy “life-of-leisure” way most of us imagine, anyway.

It had been years since I’d had months off. Years since I’d played an instrument, taken a ballet class, painted, sketched, or even written a novel. There was just no time—between work, motherhood, and now, marriage.

So there I was, surrounded by endless time… and completely lost. I had forgotten what it felt like to do the things I loved. It was like trying to reprogram a brain that had been on autopilot for decades.

Years of schooling and the workforce had trained even a free spirit like me to fall in line with the rest of the herd. When I was working, I lived for the weekends—and by Sunday, I was already miserable knowing I’d have to give up my freedom again on Monday.

So why, now that every day felt like Friday, was I not happy?

I remember telling my daughter I felt like I was trapped in that movie Groundhog Day—living the same day over and over. I might have even flipped off the Mediterranean Sea once in frustration (kidding… mostly). If I did, consider this my official apology to nature.

Eventually, my critical thinking kicked in. I started asking myself, What’s really the problem?

Sure, there were days when I explored—visiting Roman ruins, channeling my inner Indiana Jones—but every day can’t be an adventure. Try telling the one-year-ago version of me that I’d ever get tired of staring at the same ocean—I would have laughed. I would have traded my day job for that life of leisure in a heartbeat. And I bet most of you would, too.

But little by little, the old programmed version of me began to chip away.

I changed my perspective on life. I created my own meaning—one not tied to someone else’s dream. I started doing things that made me happy. I rediscovered the things I loved. I even started to love Mondays.

Mondays became exciting—the start of a new week, the day I might discover something new or rediscover something old.

Before leaving my home country, I’d focused mostly on the financial side of moving abroad. But there’s so much more to it than that. I used to wonder how someone with billions could possibly be bored—but now I understand.

I once heard Kim Kiyosaki say that “money is important because it affects everything that is,” and she’s 100% right. I love money—it’s extremely important—but there’s another side to that coin that must be nourished, too.

Mes amies, the novelty of everything eventually wears off. Don’t believe me? Go to Italy and watch the locals walk past the statues tourists are drooling over. I even experienced it in Turkey: there I was, frantically taking photos, while locals looked on with that bored “another foreigner” expression.

The crystal-clear waters, the sunsets, the rolling hills, the ancient ruins—they all exist to enhance our human experience. But the road can’t stop there, because as humans we must keep growing, expanding, creating.

Now I understand: a life of leisure only works when it’s paired with a life of purpose.

Mes amies, take a moment to reflect—what do you think your life’s purpose is? (I hope that’s not too deep; I might’ve just finished one of those meditation sessions I was telling you about. Hehe.)

P.S.
Stay tuned—because I’ll be traveling to Istanbul soon, and I’m sure something comical will happen. It usually does whenever I’m wandering around Turkey.

Until next time mes amies,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true,
Je suis JaTon