Leaving America: What a Better Life Actually Looks Like

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Most mornings, I sit on the sofa with the TV murmuring something I’ve already seen while I play Triple Match or Block Blast. Eventually, I end up scrolling through videos of people wandering around street markets, sipping coffee by rice fields, laughing over bowls of delicious, cheap noodles—scenes that make me long for a better life. A cold cup of coffee rests beside me, one I’ve already warmed up two or three times in the microwave.

Outside, the atmosphere feels heavy. Strangers argue in checkout lines. A neighbor’s Trump flag still waves six months after the election. These days, I move with purpose, not curiosity, because small talk no longer feels small. It hits me in quiet moments like this. I don’t want another vacation. I want another life. One that stirs my curiosity again. One that makes me want to talk to people, not avoid them. One with true third places—those public spots that don’t require a purchase or performance just to exist. Places that invite connection. Abroad, I find them everywhere. Here, they’ve disappeared.

Table of Contents

• Slower Mornings, Softer Days
• Third Place Beauty Anyone Can Afford
• A Return to Curiosity
• Conversations That Feel Human
• Freedom in the Everyday
• It’s Not a Vacation—It’s a Choice
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Slower Mornings, Softer Days

In the last post, Leaving America: The Myth I’m Staying to Be Close to Family, I unpacked the guilt and complexity of staying put for relationships that don’t always feel reciprocal. I admitted something I didn’t want to say out loud: being near family hasn’t brought us any closer. That post was hard to write, but necessary. Now, in this third installment, I’m shifting the lens. I want to show what a better life could actually look like—one that values ease, connection, and daily joy not just for a week’s vacation, but as a real, chosen life.

In places like Chiang Mai or Ubud, mornings begin differently. Instead of driving, I walk to a cafe. Strangers sit nearby as I listen to languages I don’t understand. Voices stay calm. The pace stays gentle. Time feels abundant. A notebook rests in my lap. I notice small things—the hiss of steamed milk, a gecko darting across the wall, the breeze through the open windows.

The pace of life abroad slows me down in the best way. It invites me to notice again. And noticing brings me so much joy.

Third Place Beauty Anyone Can Afford

In the States, everything feels like a transaction. Coffee is $6. A simple dinner out is $60. A moment of peace often comes with a price tag because there are very few third places. I hesitate before saying yes to anything.

It’s easy to feel like everything in America costs something—even your right to exist in public. But that’s not the full story. Free third places still exist if you know where to look. Public parks and libraries remain some of the last truly accessible spaces in the U.S. where you don’t have to spend money or justify being there.

That wasn’t always the case. I used to spend whole afternoons in Barnes & Noble, curled up in one of their big leather chairs with a tower of books beside me. I’d read a few pages from each before choosing one or two to take home. Places like Starbucks once felt the same. But many businesses, including Starbucks, have quietly changed their open-door policies—often in response to the growing visibility of the houseless population. And now, even parks and libraries are being policed more heavily, making people feel watched or unwelcome just for sitting too long or having nowhere else to go. It’s a slow erosion—one cozy seat or free refill at a time—that turns basic rest into something you have to earn.

Abroad, beauty is built into the day. Fresh fruit from the market. A temple tucked into the trees. A massage that costs $10—less than lunch back home. These aren’t luxuries—they’re part of life. And because they’re accessible, I say yes more often. I feel cared for without performance, payment, or permission.

A Return to Curiosity

When I live abroad, I become a student again—free to ask questions without fear of judgment. I get lost down side streets and discover neighborhoods I never meant to find. I try to pronounce unfamiliar words and often butcher them, but someone usually smiles and helps—unless I’m in Paris. I’m mostly kidding. Parisians guard their language like a family heirloom, and I respect that. Still, even there, I learn something. Curiosity becomes my compass. It leads me to small museums I didn’t plan to visit, to unexpected kindness from strangers, to conversations that stretch what I thought I knew. It’s one of the most life-giving parts of travel—this freedom to not know and not have to pretend otherwise.

Back home, curiosity fades into caution. Before I speak, I scan the room. Words come out carefully, not to connect, but to avoid conflict. Each day, I brace for the next awkward stare or the offhand comment that reminds me how divided this country feels. Laughter comes less often. Questions stay unasked. Most days, I feel tired. To stay safe, I am quiet in unfamiliar places. When safety replaces curiosity, joy begins to shrink. But abroad, I feel more like myself—willing to stumble, eager to learn, and free to wonder out loud.

Conversations That Feel Human

One of the first things I noticed abroad was how quickly I stopped feeling invisible. It wasn’t because I’m Black, American, or a woman in her fifties. People simply still talk to strangers—with curiosity, not suspicion.

After a few mornings at the same café, someone usually waves. A barista might ask what I’m writing. A couple nearby may talk about the weather or point me toward their favorite noodle shop. No one needs a reason to connect. And no one asks what I do for a living, how I vote, or what I believe. We just talk.

At home, everything feels more guarded. The space to be human in public keeps shrinking. Eyes stay down. Shoulders stay tight. Everyone sticks to their tribe. I miss those easy moments that soften the day—when someone simply sees you, not for what you are, but for who you are trying to be.

Freedom in the Everyday

Living abroad doesn’t mean every day is perfect. Sometimes, I miss family. Sometimes, I even get lonely. But even then, I feel free.

Free to walk to a 7-Eleven—one on every corner—and enjoy fresh food. It’s free to sit without buying another drink just to stay without being harassed. Free to be quiet without someone watching too closely and getting into my business. In the U.S., I carry the weight of explaining myself to people who have been emboldened, to prove I belong wherever I want to be. Karens exist everywhere, so why not face them on my terms?

It’s Not a Vacation—It’s a Choice

I’m not chasing an escape. I’ll be a Black woman no matter what. Leaving America says I’m choosing a different kind of life. One that centers wellness over hustle. Community over competition. Curiosity over fear. The better life I want isn’t built on sunsets or street food—though they help. It’s about waking up and not dreading the day. About walking through the world and not feeling like I’m bracing for impact. About being able to breathe.

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Next in the Series

Leaving America: The Real Cost of Staying
I used to think staying in the U.S. was responsible. But years of disconnection made me question that. After years of feeling disconnected, I’ve started to wonder whether staying put offers stability, or slowly erodes the life I actually want.

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_{This post, Leaving America: What a Better Life Actually Looks Like, is sponsored, and the 3rd in a 5-part blog series about leaving America. If you have questions or want to share your thoughts or experiences about leaving America, please add them in the comments below.}

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