“I chased freedom across oceans—and lost pieces of myself along the way“

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I left “home” nearly a decade ago.
First stop: the capital. I told my mom it was just for my undergrad. She wasn’t thrilled, but she made me promise I’d come back after graduating.
(Spoiler: I did not.)

I’d return home during the summers.
Just long enough to remember, not long enough to reattach.
Present, but limited edition. I liked that rhythm.

And for some reason, my friends used me as their “get out of jail free” card.
I became their excuse to ditch perfection. Their liberator.
I didn’t mind—mostly.

Then came the “just a few years” in finance and investment banking.
Not behind a desk—think sales, client dinners, shiny outfits, and borrowed confidence.
I was zipping around in fancy cars, ordering cocktails I couldn’t pronounce, trying to act like I belonged.

From the outside: impressive.
From the inside: mildly dissociating.

So, naturally, I applied to grad school.

Off to the UK for a Master’s. New country, same pattern.
I was the likable international student. A social chameleon.
I made real friends, real memories. I loved being a little wild, a little lost, a little free.

After graduating: new promises to my mom. “Just one more year.”
But I fought hard for a work visa. I stayed. I built a life in London.

This was my polished expat era.
On paper, it looked great.
In real life? I was still whispering English sentences to myself before speaking.
By the time I found the words, the conversation had already moved on.

I job-hopped a lot.
Not in the cool “building my brand” kind of way.
More like the “still don’t know where I fit” kind.

I felt like a kid in oversized work heels, cosplaying as an adult.

Then came California. Post-pandemic. Post-near-death.
The glossy version of me started to peel. The upgrades stopped sticking.
The Instagram updates faded. So did the shine.

What started to surface was the quiet, unsexy grief I’d been shoving into the back corner for years.

Because yes—I chose this life.
So I figured I didn’t get to complain.
This is what you wanted, remember? Be grateful. Shut up. Keep going.

And honestly, I did.
Until the missed weddings and holidays piled up.
Until the babies I loved were suddenly in primary school.
Until the group chats went silent and I realized—I hadn’t been in a family photo in… years.

Eventually, the check-ins stopped.
Eventually, I felt like a ghost in the town that built me.
Like everyone moved on—and maybe they should have.

No one tells you about this part.
This grief isn’t cinematic. It doesn’t arrive in storms.
It’s slow. Dull. Polite.

It shows up when I drop a reference no one here gets.
When I fumble in group settings, too busy trying not to sound weird.
When I say something and realize… no one gets it.

Back home, one glance said it all.
Low-context languages. High-context hearts.

I used to chase difference like it was my destiny.
“New” meant growth. Expansion. Proof that I was doing life right.
And even though I often felt like a misfit in Asia… people got me.

I miss that kind of connection.

Don’t get me wrong—this is the life I chased.
And it gave me plenty.
New holidays. A chosen family. New ways to belong.

But some nights—especially the quiet ones, when it’s too still to pretend—I wonder:

Did I choose this life, or did it choose me?
Maybe both.
Maybe neither.
Maybe I’m still figuring it out.
One timezone at a time.