We gave up our career in biotechnology and bought a farm in Puerto Rico

Despite my husband and family’s belief that our decision to leave the womb to live on a farm in the mountains was spontaneous, people don’t wake up one day and realize they don’t fit in. This moment of clarity is the culmination of years of difference. After all, in high school I was voted least likely to conform.

Paul and I were both raised by Depression-era parents. We were expected to follow a certain path: go to college, climb the corporate ladder, get married, and have 2.3 kids.

Always square pegs in round holes, Paul and I knew we weren’t cut out for the corporate world and the trappings of middle-class life. While our peers were happy to be transformed into successful corporatists who sought this lifestyle, we knew we were meant to live on a mountain in peace and solitude, raising a few animals and growing food.

Our dreams have always aligned

The idea of ​​a lifelong dedication to a job that was only rewarding on payday and when we went shopping for toys to distract us from the monotony made us both suffer.

My husband and I started dating in 1997. Our first date was spent planning our escape from corporate work and living on this mountain. We knew we had to comply for a few more years to earn the money to fund our shared dream. Our lifestyle afforded us two vacations a year, so we visited many potential locations: France, Mexico, several states, and Puerto Rico.

We had been married for seven years and living in Southern California when we left our biotech jobs in 2008. When the company we both worked at announced layoffs, we saw it as the sign we needed. We put our house on the market, got our final stock allotments, and quit our jobs.

The island of enchantment felt like home

We had visited Puerto Rico twice. The second time we stayed on an eight-acre farm in a small inland town. As we went up and down the mountain, we did as we had seen others do, saying “Yo!” to everyone we saw. People were probably wondering who these Americanos with their funny accents were. Between us we spoke five words of Spanish.

Despite the language barrier, many invited us to their homes for dinner. On the fourth day, I said to Paul, “I feel like we’ve been traveling for 40 years and now we’re home. » He accepted.

The mountain called us

We knew we were looking for a farm large enough to give us privacy, space for the animals, and plenty of trees. We found a 15 acre farm in the same town where we vacationed, called Utuado.

When we bought it, there were 8,000 coffee trees, which we replaced with a rare collection of fruit trees, palms and bamboo from all over the tropical world. Today, we are consultants to people who are discovering agriculture in the tropics. We raise goats, chickens, ducks and a pig mascot named Cora. We usually have between three and five dogs and numerous cats (all outside). Our chickens remind us every morning why we threw away our alarm clock.

We were here during Hurricane Maria in 2017. It took out 40% of our trees. Like all other farmers, we have spent the last eight years rebuilding. After weathering the most destructive hurricane in Puerto Rico’s history with the organic farming community, we have renewed our commitment to Puerto Rico and our way of life.

We live the life we’re meant to

Our families stopped asking, “When are you coming home?” This time we didn’t have to remind them, “We’re home.” They got the message when we began rebuilding the farm.

We speak more Spanish today than in 2008. I like to be called Doña, a title that denotes respect for older women. Although our consulting business supports us in many ways, we don’t make as much money as we used to. However, I still think our worst days on the farm are better than our best days in the corporate world.

I often wonder if, even if they hadn’t followed our parents’ wishes, if they were alive they would be proud of us. I hope so. I certainly lived up to my high school classmates’ predictions about me.