After a decade of living abroad, I’ve realized the hardest part isn’t adapting to a new place — it’s coming to terms with what you’ve given up.
In 2015, I left my life as a magazine editor in my native South Africa for the glittering skylines of Dubai. My path then took me to a job in Abu Dhabi, a stint in Singapore, five intense years in Hong Kong, and now, the tranquil beaches of Thailand.
It’s been multiple eras of incredible adventure I wouldn’t trade. But I’ve learned a hard truth: the most difficult part of being an expat isn’t the initial leap or adapting to a new culture. It’s the slow realization, years later, of the permanent sacrifices you’ve made for this lifestyle.
On the surface, it’s been a decade of opportunity. But what nobody tells you when you first pack your life into a suitcase is that the hardest parts of being an expat aren’t the initial struggles like finding an apartment, learning the customs, or battling bureaucracy.
The real challenge surfaces years later, when the gloss has worn off and you’re left making peace with the quiet, permanent sacrifices you’ve made.
The “where are you from?” identity crisis
The seemingly simple question — “So, where are you from?” — has become one of the hardest to answer. I used to love it. Now, it triggers a quiet identity crisis.
Do I say South Africa, the country on my passport that feels more like a historical fact than a home? The truth is, my heart is scattered across the world.
It belongs to the glamorous streets of Dubai, the dragon-backed hills of Hong Kong, and the green slopes of Southern Thailand. After so many moves, I’ve developed what I can only describe as a kind of “international homelessness.” I’ve become a permanent tourist, even in my own hometown.
There have been moments, between contracts or during life’s in-between phases, when a wave of panic hits, where I’ve felt a genuine, panicked confusion. Where do I belong? It’s no longer South Africa. Singapore was a mistake from the start. My heart aches for the Middle East, five years in Hong Kong was all I could handle, and my Thailand chapter is only just beginning.
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In moments of crisis, I find myself asking the simplest, most disorienting question: Where is home?
Provided by Andre Neveling
Becoming a stranger to the next generation
One of the biggest shocks, a decade in, is realizing I don’t know the children who are meant to be central to my life.
Back in South Africa, my family’s landscape transformed without me. My younger twin brothers started families. One had twins of his own, while the other had a son and later a daughter, my adorable niece.
When I flew home last year to celebrate my 40th birthday, it was a bittersweet reunion: a milestone marked a world away from the people who’ve known me the longest.
It was also the first time I met my niece. But what caught me off guard were my four-year-old nephews. You can tell a child, “This is your uncle,” but kids don’t lie — if they don’t know you, they don’t warm up. Our precious time together was mostly spent with them glued to their iPads.
The same goes for friends. The ones who had babies back in the day now have teens, and many who didn’t have kids then are now doing school runs.
During a recent catch-up call, I realized my close friend’s son — despite meeting me a few times — has no idea who I am, no matter how many times she introduces me as “Uncle Andre.”
I’m missing out on the formative years of these children’s lives, watching them grow up only through photos and videos, which is sad.
Provided by Andre Neveling
The slow disappearance of your safety net
Everyone has a backup plan, right? A place to retreat to if everything goes wrong. For an expat, that plan is often “back home” in your old room at your parents’ house, your best friend’s spare room, or that cushy company that would probably take you back.
What I failed to realize is that life back home doesn’t press pause. Parents get older. Friends move on. Companies restructure. The CEO who loved you is long gone.
In one jarring example, my former line manager — the person I thought would always have my back — is now serving a prison sentence. The professional foundation I built, the one I naively assumed would always be there, has quietly dissolved into nothing.
And then, one day, you look back and realize the home you knew no longer exists. There’s nothing to return to. That’s when it hits you: there’s no going back. This expat life isn’t just a chapter — it might be the whole book.
Do you have a story to share about living in Asia? Contact the editor at [email protected].
