There’s a photo of me walking through Lan Kwai Fong in Hong Kong on a humid summer night. Neon lights blazing. Tourists buzzing. Bass thumping from the clubs around every corner. The energy felt electric.. like life was happening at full volume.
And for a split second, I actually believed it: “This… this is what I’m meant to be doing.”
But deep down? I felt empty.
Not depressed. Not broken. Just… hollow. Like I was watching my own life from outside my body.
That’s the part no one talks about when they glamorise the expat journey, the side of ambition that comes with emotional tax. When you leave home in search of more, loneliness often sneaks in through the side door. It doesn’t always shout – sometimes it just sits with you quietly while you’re surrounded by thousands of people.
Growing Pains in Placid Places
I grew up in Melbourne, brunch capital, AFL obsession, and weather that changes its mind every five minutes. It’s familiar. Clean. Predictable. Safe. All the things a well-functioning society is supposed to be.
But in my early 20s, that comfort started feeling like a cage.
I’d walk the same streets, see the same people, have the same conversations. Day in, day out. The rhythm of life in Melbourne felt like it was designed to keep you content, not curious.
And if you’re wired to push boundaries, to explore who you are beyond your postcode, that routine becomes suffocating. Melbourne is a fantastic place to raise a family. It’s perfect in your 40s. But when you’re young, hungry, and slightly restless? It can feel like being stuck in neutral while the world outside is flying past in fifth gear.
It wasn’t hate for the place. It was frustration with what I was becoming in it.
So when an awesome overseas work opportunity came up abroad from my company, I took it with both arms and left.
The Great Escape…
Singapore. Paris. London. New York.
Say those names out loud and they sound like success. Like freedom. Like you’re living a Netflix montage of your own life.
And don’t get me wrong, some of it really is that good. Stepping off a plane with nothing but a suitcase and a plan jotted on your phone feels like you’re taking control of your own story. It’s raw, it’s uncertain, and it’s addictive.
You escape the cultural insularity of Australia – where international news comes after a segment about someone’s missing dog in Brighton. You’re no longer the smartest guy in the room. You learn. You unlearn. You get humbled.
But here’s the thing they leave out of all those “find yourself abroad” blogs:
Every new version of you comes at the cost of an older one.
You start to lose the things you didn’t realise you’d miss. The smell of your mum’s cooking. Banter with friends where nothing has to be explained. That rare ease of being understood without trying.
In a new city, you’re interesting for five minutes – after that, you’re just another foreigner trying to figure it out or a zoo animal that people stare at due to the unique physical features that aren’t widespread in their society. And that hits hard when the adrenaline of change wears off.
The Silent Tax of Ambition
When you leave home by choice, not out of crisis or war or desperation, the guilt is subtle. But it is there.
You chose this. You asked for more. So when the isolation creeps in, you don’t feel entitled to complain.
Instead, you scroll through chat groups where everyone back home is getting married, buying homes, doing baby photoshoots. You’re half a world away, working in a different corporate environment, in a new apartment, through another brutal winter.
There’s no welcome mat for you when you land. No built-in support network. You start from zero, multiple times
I got hit with Seasonal Affective Disorder hard. I’m talking pitch-black mornings, overcast afternoons, and a quiet kind of depression that makes you question your whole life plan while walking to the grocery store. I bought a 10,000-lux lamp just to trick my brain into thinking it was daytime. It helped. A bit.
But no gadget replaces the weight of being far from everyone and everything that once made you feel grounded.
So… Was It Worth It?
Yes, it definitely was. That’s not me being stubborn or rationalising my choices, when I look at my friends, and relatives back home and what they have and what they went through as the null hypothesis of having stayed in Melbourne, not a single part of me wants to be them.
Because I didn’t leave just for better job prospects or social media stories, I left to test myself.
And I got exactly what I was looking for: resistance.
I wanted to bleed a little. I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t just coasting. I needed to throw myself into unfamiliar places and see if I’d sink or swim.
I learned to be uncomfortable. I learned how to walk into rooms where no one looked like me, and still engage with everyone well. I learned to make friends who didn’t grow up with my language, my food, or my values. I learned how to keep my identity intact without needing to shout it.
I became anti-fragile.
It wasn’t always graceful. I struggled. I questioned myself. But I came out harder, sharper, more self-aware.
And more than anything, I stopped being a product of my environment. I started becoming a product of my decisions.
Final Thoughts: The Trade-Off
Leaving home isn’t brave. It’s not noble. It’s not some movie scene.
It’s a deal.
You trade comfort for chaos. Familiarity for freedom. Laughter for solitude. You miss family events. You become a time-zone ghost. You build bonds that fade. And you live with the ache of not fully belonging anywhere anymore.
But…
You also gain something primal. A deep, unshakeable belief in yourself. A proof of concept that you can handle it – whatever “it” is. And eventually, you stop trying to find where you belong and start carving out a space wherever you go.
You realise the world is bigger than the suburb you grew up in. You realise you can bend without breaking. And most importantly, you realise that sometimes…
being lonely in the crowd is exactly where you need to be.. to finally become who you were meant to be.
Inside The University of Melbourne 