You know those cute aesthetic reels of girls sipping lattes in Paris, twirling under the Eiffel Tower, and calling it “living abroad”? Yeah… that’s not what this is.
This is the real story of what it’s like to pack up your life, kiss familiarity goodbye, and move abroad — armed with dreams, fear, and three bags that almost didn’t make it through baggage claim.
When I boarded the plane to France, I didn’t feel brave. I felt terrified. Everything was blurry, like a dream I had begged for and now couldn’t believe I was living. A contract in a small French town called Poitiers, a packed suitcase, a shaky heart, and a prayer whispered between security checks, that was me, stepping into the unknown.
Back home, people thought it was glamorous. “Wow, you’re moving to France?” they said, with wide eyes and envy that tasted like sugar. But beneath the surface, my chest was heavy with doubt. I didn’t have it all figured out. I didn’t even have a permanent place to stay. I had Airbnb dates expiring soon, a foreign language swirling in my head, and a hunger to prove to myself that I could start over. Build something from scratch. Make it count.
Nobody tells you how loud the silence can be in a new country. How you can walk past a thousand people and still feel like a shadow. How some days you crave your mother’s food so much you can almost smell it, even though your fridge holds nothing but eggs and yogurt you can’t pronounce.
I remember trying to open a bank account in French. It was like decoding ancient hieroglyphs. I smiled politely, nodded too much, and left the bank feeling like a toddler dressed in adult clothes. I had to Google half the words on the forms. But I did it. Slowly. Repeatedly. Until it became less hard. Still annoying, but less humiliating.
The nights were the hardest at first. Everything would settle — the noise, the busyness, the French — and I’d be left with my thoughts. What am I doing here? What if this fails? Why did I leave everything behind? I’d cry sometimes. Quiet tears, because who do you cry to when no one really knows you yet?
But then came the little joys. A student saying “thank you, teacher” with a shy smile. A stranger complimenting my French. Buying flowers for myself on a random Tuesday because I’d made it through the week. Sitting at a café alone and realizing I wasn’t lonely, just… peaceful. I began to fall in love with the quiet — the way it held me, shaped me, and taught me to be enough all on my own.
Not everyone from back home understood. Some drifted away. Others thought I was living the dream — and in some ways, I was. But the dream was messier than expected. Some days I felt like a main character. Other days I felt like an unpaid extra in someone else’s film. And that’s okay. That’s the rhythm of real life, especially when you’re building it from the ground up in a place where even buying toothpaste feels like an adventure.
I’ve had days where I felt invisible. Days I laughed out loud at how far I’ve come. Days I wanted to give up. Days I wrote entire blog posts from cramped corners of my studio apartment just to remind myself that I’m still growing, still showing up.
Now, when I look in the mirror, I see a different version of me. Not perfect, not fully arrived, but deeply rooted. More patient with herself. More daring. More herself than she’s ever been.
Living abroad hasn’t just changed my location; it’s changed my rhythm, my mindset, my soul. It’s taught me to create joy where I can afford it. To hold space for my feelings. To celebrate things others don’t see — like learning how to take the right bus or finally understanding my payslip.
And no, I haven’t figured everything out yet. But I’m here. I’m doing it. One uncertain, magical, awkward, brave step at a time.
So if you’re dreaming of it, planning for it, afraid of it — just know this: it’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it. You will meet yourself in new ways. You will stretch and rise and sometimes cry, and then laugh again.
And you’ll find home, not just in places, but in yourself.
