Why Moving Abroad Won’t Fix Your Life

Auckland Airport, New Zealand, 2025

Twelve months ago, if you’d asked me what I needed, I’d have said this:

A one-way ticket out.

I was convinced that moving abroad—somewhere new, vibrant, exciting—would finally make me feel fulfilled. After all, when I was in Thailand on exchange, I was happy. When I was back in Auckland? Not so much. The logic seemed obvious: go back to Thailand, or somewhere equally dazzling, and I’d feel alive again.

What I didn’t realise at the time was that I wasn’t running toward something. I was running away from myself.

The First Escape Plan

My first year of university was supposed to be The Year. Everyone said so. It was meant to be the best time of my life, full of parties, late-night friendships, maybe even a boyfriend, and the start of lifelong memories. I’d won a top scholarship. I picked the newest, flashiest student hall on campus.

Instead, I got lockdowns.

Food dropped off in brown paper bags.

One hour of “prison yard” exercise in a wire-fenced court.

Me, seventeen years old, eating cereal on the floor with a tiny milk carton, staring at my cupboard.

Campus was a ghost town. No students. No buzz. No one to connect with.

The hall had over a thousand people, yet I felt invisible. I didn’t click with anyone on my floor. Everyone was obsessed with going out clubbing—I wasn’t even 18 yet. And when I finally did turn 18 and went to Bar 101, I found myself standing on sticky floors while cruisers got poured on my shoes and some guy with a buzzcut rubbed against me. Not exactly the life-defining moment I had in mind.

By the end of the year, I told myself the environment was the problem. I just got unlucky. Blame COVID. Blame the halls. Blame Auckland.

Then I went to Thailand—and everything changed.

Thailand: The Honeymoon That Confirmed My Theory

I’d been selected for a Prime Minister’s Scholarship for Asia. I interned at a law firm. I ate exotic fruits, visited Buddhist temples, did evening swims in hotel pools, went on shopping sprees, and wandered through night markets with new friends. It was vibrant. Alive. Everything I thought university was supposed to feel like.

I came back glowing. I’d lost weight, felt healthier, happier, more me.

See? I thought. I knew it. Thailand = happiness. I just need to live somewhere else.

Spoiler alert: That feeling didn’t last.

Europe: Chasing Freedom, Finding Restlessness

Semester two hit, and I wasn’t feeling great again. So I did what any emotionally avoidant, semi-self-aware overachiever might do: I backpacked across Europe while doing my studies online.

It sounds glamorous—and on social media, it was. People messaged me in awe.

“You’re so independent!” “You’re thriving!” “You must be having the time of your life!”

But somewhere between hostels and buses and border crossings, something gnawed at me: every friendship was fleeting. I was always arriving and leaving. There was no depth. No anchor.

One night in Prague, dancing at Duplex, third floor, surrounded by near-strippers flipping their hair on podiums, I got a notification: I’d been accepted to study abroad in China next semester.

Cue: next escape.

China: The Cracks Begin to Show

Six months at Tsinghua University. I told myself it would be different.

At first, it was. New country. New people. New challenges. I loved learning about Chinese culture, exploring the provinces, reconnecting with my roots. But as the novelty wore off, I was left with… well, me.

Same thoughts. Same insecurities. Same loneliness.

I tried to become someone brighter. More extroverted. More magnetic. I changed my outfits. I forced small talk. I tried to be “on” all the time. And still, I came back to that same heaviness. That vague sense of not quite enough.

The language barrier made connection hard. International and Chinese students kept to themselves. The academic culture was intense—on any random Saturday, you’d check the study seat app in the library and see 403/404 spots taken.

Even the air felt heavy.

Still, I kept the story going: Maybe I just haven’t found the right place yet.

Dartmouth: The Dream That Exposed the Illusion

Then came the U.S. I studied at Dartmouth College for another semester.

And honestly? It felt like a perfect fit.

Lively conversations over late-night pancakes. Ski culture in the winter, football games in the fall. An organic farm where students picked kale before class. Running trails through pine forests. A creative, liberal arts energy where you could hike in the morning and debate Nietzsche in the afternoon. I wrote for the student paper. I laughed around bonfires. I felt, for a while, like I belonged.

I thought, If only I’d started here. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so lost in first year. Maybe this is the place I’m meant to be.

But the truth? Perhaps I only thrived at Dartmouth because I walked in with two years of life behind me. If I had come as a freshman, I probably wouldn’t have known how to navigate the culture. I wouldn’t have known how to find my people. I wouldn’t have had the same emotional resilience.

And just like every other place, beneath the glow of it all… was still me.

It Was Never About the Place

Through all these escapes—Thailand, Europe, China, the U.S.—I kept looking for the external solution to an internal question.

And yes, some place did help.

I function better in nature. I light up with fresh fruit, movement, sunshine, and people who wave at strangers. I crave community-oriented living and slow mornings that start with a walk, not a scroll.

Cold, rainy cities? They drain me. Like they probably drain most people.

Overcrowded environments where everyone is too busy to connect? A fast track to numbness.

So yes—your surroundings shape you. They amplify certain versions of you. But they don’t define you.

Because the truth is, no matter where you go—Bangkok, Prague, Beijing, Hanover—you’re left with the same person. You.

And if you don’t know how to sit with them? To hold them through boredom, heartbreak, confusion, and change? No postcode will save you.

Eventually, the novelty wears off. The new city becomes routine. The charm fades, and what you’re left with is your own inner climate.

It’s not just where you live—it’s how you live.

How you build meaning when no one’s watching.

How you show up when the sun isn’t shining.

How you respond when things get hard.

That’s what defines you.

Back in Auckland, With Different Eyes

Now, I’ve come back to Auckland. Same city. But I see it with different eyes.

I’m grateful for the opportunities this place has given me—a city with stillness and stunning nature on my doorstep, the ability to study abroad, a wonderful life I’ve built here. I see beauty in the beaches and hikes, in the quietness I once resented. I’ve reconnected with friends I’d taken for granted. And I’ve started to build the kind of life that no longer needs to be “escaped” from.

I used to believe success and happiness lived elsewhere.

Now I know: they start internally.

The right place can support you.

But ultimately, it’s not about the place.

It’s about the person.