I moved abroad to start over — and found out I was the problem all along

New language, new cafés, new skyline, new me. I sold the furniture, kissed the city I knew goodbye, and landed twelve time zones away with two suitcases and exactly one fantasy: a fresh start that would scrub me clean of the mess I kept repeating at home.

Within three weeks I realized something I didn’t say out loud for months.

I didn’t need a new country.

I needed new habits.

The problem I was trying to outrun had my passport photo.

The first fight in a new kitchen

Starting over felt like stagecraft. I learned how to set up a bank account using charades and bad grammar. I biked past cathedrals like a responsible movie character. I bought spices with names I had to Google. I told myself I was changing.

Then the first real test hit: a roommate misunderstanding over dishes.

It was laughably small. I had cooked a plant-based stew, felt very virtuous about leaving some for them, and then saw a stack of plates in the sink an hour later. My brain sprinted to court. Exhibit A: disrespect. Exhibit B: I’m always the responsible one. Exhibit C: they never asked how my day was. It took my body five minutes to behave like I was in a courtroom where justice depended on a speech.

That courtroom? I’d built it back home too.

The next morning I apologized. Not for being annoyed. For skipping the part where I asked a question. “I made up a story. What’s yours?” They said the sink was backing up and the plumber was coming, so they stacked things instead of running water. I stared at the evidence of my old habits—righteousness, fast conclusions, the adrenaline hit of feeling wronged—and realized my geography had changed, but my nervous system hadn’t.

New kitchen, same fight.

I didn’t like who I was in that moment, which turned out to be good news. Dislike can be a map if you let it.

The lie I moved with

My secret hope was that a foreign city would do the changing for me.

I’d be calmer because the cafés were quieter. Kinder because strangers were helpful. More present because the architecture demanded awe. Less online because my SIM card didn’t work for two days and bliss bloomed in the gap.

You know what happened.

I found the noisiest coffee shop. I speed-walked past beautiful buildings to make self-imposed deadlines. I used the language apps like a competition instead of a bridge. I watched my thumb learn a new dopamine route through different social apps with the same old hunger.

Starting over didn’t delete my code. It just ran my code in new scenery.

So I started small and specific. Not with “be a better person” but with “don’t stage a courtroom before you ask a question.” Not with “stop doomscrolling” but with “phone on airplane mode until after breakfast.” Not with “be more present” but with “one slow lap around the block every evening with no headphones.”

It felt embarrassingly basic. It also worked better than any skyline.

New language, old impatience

Language classes were my daily humility practice.

If you want to meet your ego, try telling a joke in a language you barely speak. I’d build a sentence like a wobbly sandwich and then watch it fall apart midair. My teacher had the patience of a saint. I did not. I wanted fluency yesterday. I wanted to be charming immediately. I wanted the identity you get for free in your home language—clever, specific, fast—to transplant seamlessly.

The ache underneath was simple: I didn’t like being new at things where people could see me.

Back home I’d avoided newness by staying in lanes where I looked competent. Moving exposed the trick. Abroad, your whole life is beginners’ hour. Bureaucracy, laundry symbols, which line to stand in, how to greet a neighbor’s dog without sounding like you were flirting with the neighbor—every tiny thing was a tutorial.

My impatience wasn’t culture shock.

It was me shock.

So I built another small rule: three mistakes per day, minimum. If I didn’t hit the quota, I probably hadn’t left the house. I started counting them out loud—ordering the wrong pastry, misgendering a bridge (the language cared; I didn’t), asking for a stamp at a bank. My brain learned to file “wrong” under “learning” instead of “evidence I should never speak again.” That one reframe softened me faster than any grammar book.

Loneliness without the story

Moving strips your calendar clean. Every coffee date, workout buddy, and barista who knew your order evaporates. The silence can be medicinal or cruel depending on the story you attach.

My first two weeks I told the worst story: nobody wants me.

True? No. Useful? Definitely not.

The facts were simpler. I didn’t know anyone yet. Community is a slow recipe. You can’t microwave it by sheer charm. The people I admired—steady, generous, interesting—did the same ordinary, unglamorous things over and over.

They showed up to the free language exchange on Tuesdays even when the last one was awkward. They brought snacks to the community garden they’d just joined. They remembered names and pets. They made a habit of leaving the house right when the couch felt magnetic.

So I borrowed their script. Tuesdays: language exchange. Thursdays: volunteer shift at the food co-op (rice and lentils don’t portion themselves). Sundays: the same café, same corner table, same nod at the woman with the giant headphones and the dog who disapproved of everyone uniformly.

I waved. She waved back. Two months later we were comparing routes for evening walks. Three months in, she texted me a photo of a cat on a rooftop with the caption “your energy animal.” I felt known.

Loneliness didn’t vanish. It got scheduled around.

Dating the same person with a different name

The first person I dated in my new city looked different from my last relationship. That was the trap.

The pattern was identical. They were exciting in the exact ways that allowed me to ignore the low-grade unkindness I minimized as “quirk.” I told myself the chemistry meant we were special and the chaos meant we were alive. When they cancelled twice in a row, I sent breezy replies like a cool person. When they forgot something important I’d said, I made jokes. When my body felt that quiet dread you feel when you’re about to ask for something reasonable and you know it will be treated like an indictment, I told myself I was needy.

New city. Old negotiation with my self-respect.

I broke it off after a month. Not because they were the villain. Because I recognized the mirror. I was repeating a dynamic I knew how to survive instead of risking one I didn’t know how to build.

Starting over doesn’t mean dating better people by accident.

It means enforcing better boundaries on purpose.

I wrote them down. Literally. What I will and won’t do. What I’ll ask for without apology. What “interest” looks like in behavior, not captions. I read the list before dates like a person studying for a test she intends to pass. My relationships improved at the speed of my standards.

Work is a country too

I thought my work habits were the least dramatic part of my life. I was wrong.

I’d built an identity out of being always available, fast, and slightly exhausted. New time zone, same compulsion. I answered emails at 11 p.m. my time because it was “only” 4 p.m. somewhere else. I said yes to projects that looked shiny and felt wrong. I let stress decide my bedtime.

One afternoon I sat in a square watching an old man teach a kid to ride a bike—small push, tiny wobble, big grin—and had the extremely cheesy thought that my schedule needed training wheels. I was crashing every day at the same turn: late nights and vague mornings.

So I installed three rails.

• A start line. Phone on airplane mode until I sat in a chair with sunlight and ate something warm.

• A finish line. Laptop closed at a certain hour unless someone was in a hospital. (Shockingly rare.)

• A friction check. If my body sped up when I opened an email, I had to stand up and get water before replying.

It felt inflexible. Then it felt like freedom. I produced better work, faster, and slept like someone who isn’t haunted by their inbox. Turns out “availability” had been my way of avoiding choosing. A schedule is a choice disguised as a calendar.

The apology tour (internal edition)

I made a list of people I’d blamed location for.

“You make me feel rushed.”

“You don’t respect my time.”

“You always make me the organized one.”

Sometimes it was true. Often I was the common denominator. I apologized to two exes (not to reopen anything; to close my side more cleanly).

I apologized to a friend I’d ghosted out of embarrassment about being behind on my own promises. Most importantly, I apologized to myself in writing for the months I let stress be my personality.

I don’t think apologies should be a performance. They should be receipts.

Mine sounded like, “I dismissed your boundary because it scared me. I won’t do that again.” Or, “I made you the problem because it helped me avoid my part. I see it. I’m changing this thing right now.”

I paired each apology with a behavior change I could point to. Not because anyone demanded it. Because I’d moved countries to be different and here was an actual lever: repair.

The weirdest part? After a few of those conversations, my chest felt wider. I had more air. Self-respect is a respiratory condition—better when you breathe.

The city didn’t save me. It schooled me.

It taught me that kindness is cheaper than fluency. That asking a second question solves at least half of my problems. That street markets and transit maps are therapy-adjacent if you let them be.

That most of my “urgent” work disasters were just adrenaline costumes. That vegan food in a new place tastes like generosity if you learn how to ask for it without drama. That carrying a small trash bag on walks and picking up whatever you see is a passport into belonging.

It reminded me that my body is not a brain taxi. When I slept, drank water, touched sunlight, and moved, I made better choices—about people, work, and how loud my stories got.

It proved that “start over” is code for “start smaller.”

Not change your whole life.

Change the five daily moves that make most of your life.

What I’m keeping now that the honeymoon is over

• One lap around the block after dinner. No headphones. Let the city talk.

• The “ask-before-accuse” rule. “Is there another explanation?” out loud.

• Three mistakes a day quota. If I’m not racking them, I’m hiding.

• Phone on airplane mode until breakfast is over. My brain thanks me. So do other humans.

• Standards written down. For work, friendship, dating. Re-read when I’m tempted to negotiate against myself.

• Weekly repair. If I get sharp, I circle back fast. If someone else does, I say what would help next time.

• One neighbor favor. Lends me belonging quicker than any networking event ever has.

I moved abroad to find a new version of myself. I ended up finally seeing the old one clearly. My postcards home used to say “Wish you were here” under photos of sunsets. Now they might say “Wish you could see this checklist I finally use.” Less poetic. More effective.

The fresh start wasn’t a city. It was a practice.

And the wildest part?

It travels.