Leaving America- Why Staying is No Longer Enough

When Staying Starts to Feel Like Settling

I’ve been saying I was leaving America for years. Sometimes, it was a quiet thought I whispered to myself after watching the news. Other times, I said it aloud to Steven, half-joking, knowing I wouldn’t follow through—at least not yet. I used to tell myself that we stayed in the U.S. for family. That was the easy answer. It sounded noble, even responsible, like we were doing the right thing. But the truth sat underneath that answer, heavy and persistent. It didn’t feel entirely true. The older I get, the more I’ve had to confront what’s real and what’s just routine dressed up as duty.

Our families are spread out—scattered across time zones, continents, and lives we’re no longer part of day to day. We don’t gather for Sunday dinners. We don’t pop by just to say hi or lend a hand when someone needs help with a flat tire or a sick kid. Those things don’t happen when everyone lives in different states—or countries.

Every visit takes planning, time off, and money. It’s not just a drive across town. It’s flights, multi-day road trips, hotels, and sleeping in guest rooms that aren’t quite yours. Still, I clung to the idea that staying in the U.S. somehow kept us close. Like maybe just being on the same soil made the distance feel smaller. Like I was doing my part by being the one who stayed—even if no one noticed, and even if it didn’t actually bring us any closer.

Lately, I’ve Started to Question What I’m Staying For

We live in Illinois now. Flat land, big skies, long winters. I know the streets, the grocery stores, and the way the house creaks at night. But familiarity isn’t the same as belonging. And that difference grows louder every year we stay.

I think about time differently now. Not just the days that pass, but the ones we won’t get back—the quiet ones, the messy ones, the ones I used to rush through without thinking. Our parents are aging. Their bodies move slower. The phone calls are shorter, and sometimes their voices sound tired, which scares me. I know, deep down, they won’t always be here. None of us will.

I’m in my late 50s now. I had a birthday yesterday. Happy birthday to me. It wasn’t a milestone, just another quiet time marker, but it hit me harder than I expected. The kids are grown. They’re out making their own choices, writing their own stories. My husband and I circled the same conversation more often—what comes next? Not in a dreamy way, but in an honest, practical way. We don’t have forever to figure it out. That truth sits with me now, every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to bed. I feel the weight of it—but I also feel the urgency to make the years ahead count.

What Leaving America Taught Me About Joy

We’ve lived abroad before. Not just vacations but honest day-to-day living. I remember the sound of scooters weaving through the streets of Seoul and the smell of warm bread and diesel in German markets. The way time stretched differently there. Life didn’t feel rushed. It felt layered, deliberate. We built lives in those places—bit by bit—even knowing they might not last.

And still, we came back.

We came back because it seemed like the responsible thing to do. We thought we were doing the right thing by returning to the U.S., settling down, and staying near family. But responsibility without joy becomes its kind of weight. It drags on you. It starts to feel like you’re living someone else’s version of what a good life should look like.

My mother will visit us anywhere. She’s always been that way—open, adventurous, supportive. His family won’t. That’s just the truth. It used to bother me. Now, I accept it for what it is. We knew that years ago but didn’t let it guide our choices. We let guilt lead instead. And in doing so, I think we delayed something we already knew: our best life might not be here.

And staying close hasn’t made anyone closer.

When I’m abroad, I feel more connected to my own life. I don’t mean that as a fantasy—I mean the ordinary, beautiful details. I wake up excited to explore, even if it’s just a quiet street or a tiny cafe. When I’m away, I hear myself think. I breathe differently. I move slower, but I notice more. Meals take longer. Conversations last longer. Nothing’s on autopilot.

Something about living outside your comfort zone wakes you up to your own life. And every time I’ve stepped into that kind of living, I’ve felt more alive than I do here.

That Clarity Fades When We Come Back

I don’t hate it here. I’m not bitter. I just feel paused—like I never pressed play on the version of me that feels most alive. That version shows up more often overseas.

So why am I still here?

Habit. Guilt. Fear.

But those don’t build a life. They stall it. I’m not running away. I’m making space—for joy, for purpose, for the pace that fits who I am now. Leaving America part-time isn’t rejection. It’s expansion.

I used to think leaving America meant giving something up. But now, I see it as returning to the life I want to live—one where I feel awake, aligned, and fully present.

And staying here, on its own, is no longer enough.

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Next in the Series:

Leaving America: The Myth I’m Staying to be Close to Family
I used to believe that living nearby would keep us close. But after a year and a half back in the U.S., I’ve started to question whether staying in one place for others really brings anyone closer—or just keeps us stuck.

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This post, Leaving America: Why Staying Is No Longer Enough, is a sponsored post and the first in a 5-part blog series about leaving America. If you have questions or want to share your own thoughts or experiences about leaving America, please add them in the comments below.

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