Teaching Abroad Forced Me to Unlearn the Lies I Grew Up With

Editor's Note

Teaching abroad didn’t give me answers — it stripped away beliefs I didn’t know I was carrying. This essay traces how living overseas challenged my ideas of normalcy, worth, and identity, and how unlearning those ideas made room for something softer and more human.

I didn’t go abroad to “find myself,” and I wasn’t trying to escape anything.

I went because I was restless, curious, and uncomfortable in a life that looked “normal” on the outside. I felt like I was stuck in a cookie-cutter type of life. What was beyond those tin-lined borders?

I thought I knew myself fairly well, but what I didn’t expect was that teaching abroad would peel back the layers I didn’t know I was wearing. It revealed parts I never contemplated could be missing, parts that brought up wounds I never realized were hidden.

Growing up in the United States, I believed normalcy was being pushed out at eighteen to start your own life. In China and many other countries, I learned that normal meant staying at home until marriage — no matter how long that took. Neither of them was right nor wrong. They were simply different.

Before leaving the United States, I thought I knew who I was — how society needed to function properly. Everything was urgent. Fight-or-flight mode was the daily norm.

Not speaking to family members for months, sometimes years, felt normal. Family showed up for weddings, funerals, and maybe the occasional holiday. Independence meant keeping score — even with the people you loved.

Personality-wise, I grew up labeled an introvert because I chose books and writing over forcing friendships just to fit in. The label “difficult” became my new identifier. It often was attached to harsher words when it came to standing up for myself and others.

I grew up believing individualism was the key to everything. From grade school on, we’re taught that each person is unique and special, and we should cherish that. I didn’t question it as much growing up, but something felt absent. It felt like there was a hole in me—something missing that I couldn’t yet name.

Sounds harsh, right?

But for a long time, this was just life. It felt like a dog-eat-dog world, where I believed everyone had to look out for themselves. There was a constant lingering feeling that there was more out there. I believed that my baseline was to only work and hope that I could make a living… Hope that I could enjoy life… Hope that I could find enjoyable company. I didn’t realize how much I took these beliefs as universal— until I lived somewhere that quietly challenged them.

My realization wasn’t overnight. Nothing ever truly worth learning is. Moments overseas slowly unraveled the dark, hidden layers I never knew existed in myself.

My first week in Thailand, I remember sitting in my agent’s house looking at the marbled floor that always stayed cool to the touch. The walls were barren, but they had the essentials needed for their life — tv on the wall, a couch, chairs, and a table.  

I was eager to complete my visa paperwork, eager to witness the school, eager to get things started. I was itching to keep moving despite the sludge that seemed to swim through my limbs. My heart raced knowing how much I needed to finish.

My agent set down a bowl of homemade noodles in front of me as she sat and looked over the paperwork. I asked her what I needed to do and how immediate everything was. She slowly looked over at me and sipped her coffee. She said, “sabai sabai” with a wave of a hand and continued what she was doing.

I didn’t understand the exact meaning, but I felt what she meant. It wasn’t until later that I truly learned the phrase.

The first time I had dinner with my boss was challenging. I had no means of transportation and no clue where to go. I stood outside the house I was placed in and waited for the pickup time. I watched as dusty mopeds zipped down the dirt road, beeping every turn, stop, or “hello”. My watch passed from four to four fifteen to four-thirty. I was nervous. Did I misunderstand what time we were to meet?

My boss slowly drove up and greeted me with a kowtow. Her phone rang. I could hear the American accent on the other end of the line. The boss kept saying, “sabai sabai.” In about five minutes, we picked up the other person.

On the first day of class, I was asked where my lesson plan was. What lesson plan? I wasn’t even given a book or told what classes I was teaching. Every nerve in me fired at once, with nowhere to go. The teacher aide told me, “sabai sabai,” and with the wave of a hand, she said we will wait for later.

Later, in English, she said, “Relax, relax, there’s no rush, no worries. We run on Thai time.” The sense of urgency slowly released from me, knowing that everything still worked out without having to be anxious or do things weeks ahead of time.

When I was in China, friends would ask me how I wanted to celebrate my birthday. I couldn't answer. Growing up, it was a sore contention and not one that worked out well. It was always about everyone else. If anything were to happen, I had to plan it. I was done planning things.

Upon walking into work, I found my desk covered in grand bouquets of flowers, teddy bears, coffee, and presents. It was so beautiful, but not an inch was left for me to work. Coworkers/friends stayed hidden, waiting to see my reaction. They jumped out with joy and laughter. We took photos, hugged, and cherished each other.

There was no hidden agenda, no wanting anything in return. They celebrated everyone’s birthday as a day to truly celebrate. They were joyous to have me in their life and shared how much they cared for me.

I remember walking between the rundown stalls of an alleyway on the way to work. There was an old lady with a hunched back. Wrinkles covered her from head to toe, and her clothes were torn and tattered. Her hands were burned from countless hours working over the hot oil. Yet, she couldn’t stop smiling with every approach of a customer, family member, or friend. She cherished the stray dogs and always gave them something to eat.

One night, my friend and I were having some tea in South Korea. We played a game that asked us questions about each other. Not the silly kind, but the ones that really get you thinking.

The card came up with: “What was your first impression of me?”

For the sake of privacy, I’m going to call my friend Beatrice in this.

Beatrice said, “I thought you were stern, a rule follower. But you were also extremely sweet and caring. You wanted to make sure I didn’t feel left out. You could have a temper, but it was never undeserved.”

I replied, “I’m surprised. I grew up being told I was a bitch. No one liked me, and there’s a reason I don’t have friends.”

The pure shock on her face surprised me. “How did they treat you in China?”

“Everyone was happy to see me. They asked for my help. We would go out for dinner, lunch, and all sorts. We would talk for hours and share different ideas.”

“That’s the same here. You’ve got so many friends. They look to you for help, and they care for you.”

“But, I’m a bitch because I say what’s on my mind and I complain and try to fix things.”

“You complain and try to fix things when there’s injustice. You protect the ones you care about. You speak your mind to show who you are. There’s no shame in that, and that is not called "bitchy." That’s called being human and standing up for what’s right. You’re not bitchy, you're soft, kind-hearted, and cherished by tons of people. The ones that call you bitchy don’t like that they can’t control you.”

I sat with that conversation for days…

Growing up, I had been conditioned that fighting for what’s right and standing up for people was wrong. I was conditioned to believe that speaking your mind and actually choosing yourself was being “bitchy.” It contradicted what people preached to me about individualism.

Over the course of about seven years, the layers slowly withered and fell away. New leaves were blooming, and there was something soft and beautiful about what lay beneath. It was like a lotus blossoming for the first time— hard on the outside yet soft and pink beneath, waiting to be seen.

The pressure to always be on time and perfect was gone.

The lie that money and security equaled happiness was gone.

The lie that people never truly cared was gone.

The belief that choosing myself was wrong was gone.

Learning that people will truly support you in your endeavors, be by your side and cherish you not for what you do for them but simply being you was the hardest thing to unlearn.

I didn’t come back with all the answers to the universe.

But… I did come back with fewer lies.

Distance didn’t make me someone new. I didn’t have a sudden epiphany of revelations. It took time. It took questioning myself. It took unlearning old ways.

Living abroad gave me the space to hear myself clearly for the first time and see myself through others’ eyes.

If you’ve lived abroad, you probably know this feeling—even if you’ve never had words for it.