They Sound Lovely. They're Just Not My People.

I was talking with a retreat leader I know who lives in Costa Rica. During our conversation, she learned that Bob and I are living in San Miguel de Allende. Her eyes lit up.

"You have to meet my friends."

She didn't suggest it. She insisted.

"They're exactly your kind of people. You'll become instant friends."

I told her I'd look them up.

Later that day I found their Facebook profiles. They looked perfectly pleasant. Successful. Friendly. Social. There wasn't a single red flag.

There also wasn't a single thing that made me think, "I need to know these men."

A few weeks later we met again.

"So," she asked. "Did you reach out?"

I admitted I hadn't.

She seemed surprised.

Then she started describing their life.

They own a sprawling estate outside the city on what used to be an artichoke farm. They host enormous themed parties. She described one celebration where guests smashed a giant custom-made piñata. Instead of candy, a disco ball dropped from the center. The moment it appeared, lights across the property came alive, music exploded from hidden speakers, and the entire backyard transformed into an outdoor nightclub.

There were imported wines.

Professional staff.

Elaborate costumes.

Parties that stretched late into the night.

As she talked, I found myself asking a different question.

What about me made her think this was my crowd?

Please don't misunderstand.

They sound delightful.

I hope they're wonderful people. I hope their parties are legendary. I hope everyone leaves with stories they'll tell for years.

But none of that sounds like the life I'm trying to build.

When I moved to Mexico, I wasn't looking for a louder version of the United States with prettier scenery.

I came here because I wanted something quieter.

I wanted mornings in the jardín.

Long conversations over coffee.

Neighbors who recognize one another.

Small restaurants where the owner remembers your name.

A slower rhythm.

I've noticed that many Americans who move abroad bring America with them. Bigger parties. Bigger personalities. Bigger social circles. There isn't anything wrong with that. It's simply not what I crossed a border to find.

The older I get, the more protective I become of my time.

Every invitation carries a cost.

Every friendship asks for energy.

Every "yes" quietly says "no" to something else.

When I was younger, I accepted invitations because I was afraid of missing out.

Now I decline invitations because I'm afraid of missing the life I'm trying to create.

There's a difference.

I don't need a calendar packed with events.

I don't need to know the right people.

I don't need to attend every party.

I'd rather share dinner with two close friends than spend an evening trying to be impressed.

I'd rather walk home through San Miguel's quiet streets than drive home from the biggest party in town.

One of the greatest gifts that comes with age is recognizing that loneliness isn't the worst outcome.

Living someone else's version of a good life is.

So while I sincerely hope those boys on the artichoke farm are having the time of their lives, I'm content searching for something much simpler.

A meaningful conversation.

A quiet afternoon.

A community that values presence more than spectacle.

If that means spending more evenings at home, I'm perfectly happy with the trade.

I've learned that finding your people isn't about finding those who live the most glamorous life.

It's about finding the people who make you feel more like yourself when you leave than when you arrived.