I didn’t leave the United States to make a point. I left to take a breath.

Back in 2019, I figured I’d collect a few passport stamps, find a favorite café or two, then slide back into American life. Then March 2020 showed up, the world hit pause, and by the time planes were flying again I’d learned something surprising: leaving the U.S. was the most American thing I’d ever done. It gave me distance, perspective, and—ironically—a better look at home.

Since then I’ve split my time mostly between Bogotá, Colombia (home base) and the Swiss Alps (precision, order, and scenery designed by a perfectionist). Four quick trips to the States each year for family, barbecue in North Carolina, and a reminder that receipts now come with jump-scares. Somewhere between the Andean sunrises and Swiss trains that arrive at 10:03 because they promised 10:03, my understanding of freedom, work, food, safety, and “living well” changed—quietly, permanently.

This isn’t an “America bad, everywhere else good” piece. It’s a love letter with a few honest footnotes.

I grew up on the idea that the U.S. is the freest country on earth. We brand it, sing it, hashtag it. But living abroad taught me that freedom isn’t a poster—it’s how your day feels.

Leaving didn’t take my American freedom. It let me feel the practical kind—time and peace—on a daily basis.

I pay about $850/month for a three-bedroom Bogotá penthouse with a big terrace, mountain views, and a doorman who smiles like it’s part of the architecture. Groceries are reasonable. Restaurants are cheaper. Tipping is typically 10%—and it’s asked for politely, not demanded with a touchscreen in your face.

In much of the U.S., the price on the menu is the opening bid: sales tax, service charges, tip prompts (“18%, 20%, or socially awkward?”), and the stealth charity round-up. A simple café moment becomes an SAT math section.

Then there’s the car. In Bogotá, I walk to most everything or grab an inexpensive ride. In the U.S., outside a handful of cities, a car isn’t convenience—it’s admission. Add insurance, fuel, maintenance, registration, parking, and you’re paying for the privilege of sitting in traffic.

We’re trained to equate struggle with success. But in a lot of the world, the win is simpler: live well, without fighting your receipt.

If you want to understand the U.S. from the outside, step into a clinic elsewhere.

In Colombia, I pay roughly $30/month for coverage (EPS). I book an appointment, see the doctor, and… that’s it. No mystery envelopes, no “this one’s out-of-network.” Bloodwork at 8 a.m., results before lunch. The technology is solid; the access is the star.

In the U.S., we have world-class specialists and cutting-edge hospitals—along with a maze between you and them. People delay care not because doctors aren’t great, but because cost and confusion are greater.

Abroad, I learned that the best system isn’t the one with the fanciest machine; it’s the one you actually use.

Colombia has a lot of puentes (long weekends). They’re not about escaping work; they’re about remembering people. Monday holidays, family trips, unrushed lunches. If you say you worked through a holiday, someone will look at you like you just insulted their dog.

In the U.S., we apologize for taking time off. We brag about unused PTO like merit badges. We talk about “grind” and “hustle” and wonder why our shoulders live near our ears.

I’m pro-ambition. But ambition without presence is just motion. Colombia taught me to measure a week not by tasks checked, but by moments noticed.

Here’s a quiet revolution: soup from bones. In Colombia, broth is a process—chicken carcass, aromatics, time. Vegetables are bright and bought for today. Lunch is an event, not a pit stop. It tastes like someone meant it.

In the U.S., we’ve engineered a miracle of convenience—pre-cooked, pre-sauced, pre-flavored. It’s efficient. It’s also how we end up asking if we’re hungry or just busy.

Cooking from scratch abroad didn’t make me a food snob. It made me a time snob. I want meals that slow the room down for a minute.

Every time I’ve landed stateside lately, the news carries another mass shooting. Different city, same ache. It’s the randomness that rattles you—school, grocery store, concert.

In Colombia today, the old 80s/90s narrative doesn’t match daily reality. You stay aware, watch your phone in crowded spots, and live your life. Most risk feels predictable and avoidable, not random. That difference changes how your shoulders sit when you walk down a street.

Back home it can feel like the entire country is trapped in one giant group text that never mutes. Everything is identity. Every conversation a referendum. Outrage outperforms understanding.

Abroad, people debate soccer harder than politics and remain friends after dessert. Disagreement isn’t a civil war; it’s Tuesday. The temperature is lower and the humanity is higher.

Six years out didn’t make me anti-American. It made me pro-balance. Switzerland showed me structure protects creativity. Colombia showed me joy is a daily habit. The U.S. taught me to build; abroad taught me what to build for.

I used to chase comfort. I found contentment. Comfort is a couch; contentment is a life.

What matters now is simple: good people, good food, unhurried days, purposeful work. The kind of wealth that doesn’t need a bank account to prove it.

If you’re considering a season abroad—or just a lifestyle redesign where you already live—start learning the pieces now: visas, taxes, budgets, neighborhoods, trade-offs. The world is kinder, closer, and more possible than the internet would have you believe.

See you out there.