We Left Our Careers in Biotech and Bought a Farm in Puerto Rico

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

Both Paul and I were raised by Depression-era parents. We were expected to take 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 built for the corporate world and the trappings of middle-class life. While our peers were happy being molded into successful corporatists who sought that lifestyle, we knew we were supposed to live on a mountain in peace and solitude, raising a few animals, and growing food.

Our dreams have always been aligned

The idea of lifelong devotion to a job that was only fulfilling on pay day and when we were out buying toys to distract us from the monotony, pained us both.

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

We were married seven years and living in Southern California by the time we left our jobs in biotech, in 2008. When the company we were both at announced layoffs, we saw it as the sign we needed. We put our house on the market, got our final stock awards, and quit our jobs.

The Island of Enchantment felt like home

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

Despite the language barrier, many invited us to their homes for dinner. By day four, I said to Paul, “It feels like we’ve been traveling for 40 years and now we’re home.” He agreed.

The mountain called to us

We knew we were looking for a farm, one that was large enough to offer us privacy and space for animals and lots of trees. We found a 15-acre farm in the same town we vacationed in, called Utuado.

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

We were here for Hurricane Maria in 2017. She took 40% of our trees. Like all other farmers, we’ve spent the last eight years rebuilding. Having gone through the most destructive hurricane in Puerto Rico’s recorded history with the organic farming community, we’ve renewed our commitment to Puerto Rico and our lifestyle.

We’re living the life we were meant to

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

We speak more Spanish today than we did in 2008. I love being referred to as Doña, which is a title denoting respect for older women. Although our consulting business sustains us in many ways, we don’t make the money 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, despite not following our parents’ wishes, if they were alive, they’d be proud of us. I hope so. I’ve certainly lived up to my high school mates’ predictions about me.