There’s a phrase I’ve had in my head for years, long before I ever packed a suitcase or learned how to order coffee in another language:

You only know what you know.

It sounds obvious—almost too simple. But it didn’t really land until I stopped living in just one country.

Because once you leave, something interesting happens. You start noticing that many of the things you thought were normal, standard, or just the way life works… aren’t universal at all. They’re not even particularly logical in some cases. They’re just familiar.

Living abroad doesn’t instantly make one country better than another. What it does is something more subtle—and more powerful. It breaks the spell of autopilot. It shows you which parts of life are design choices, which are cultural habits, and which are trade-offs you didn’t realize you were making.

This isn’t a “which country wins” piece. There’s no flag waving here. It’s simply an honest look at five things people in Colombia take for granted, and five things Americans rarely realize they’re benefiting from—until they live without them.

Because travel doesn’t just change where you live.
It changes how you see.

One of the first things you notice in Colombian cities isn’t traffic or architecture—it’s proximity.

Groceries. Pharmacies. Bakeries. Coffee shops. Hardware stores.

They’re all just… there. Within a few blocks. You don’t “run errands.” You step outside.

In much of the U.S., driving isn’t about distance—it’s about design. Even short trips often require a car because cities were built around movement, not access. Walkability is treated like a luxury amenity.

In Colombia, it’s the default.

And you don’t realize how much of your day used to be spent sitting in traffic until you stop doing it.

Colombia is a large country. And yet flying across it is often shockingly affordable.

Same planes. Same fuel. Same physics.

But in the U.S., those same flights can cost two or three times as much. Domestic air travel feels less like transportation and more like a financial decision.

In Colombia, flying isn’t a production. It’s just… how you get somewhere.

Once you get used to that, paying U.S. prices feels less like travel and more like a penalty.

Rappi quietly changes how you think about convenience.

Food, yes. But also groceries. Medicine. Hardware. Office supplies. Random things you forgot you needed until five minutes ago.

Delivery in Colombia isn’t just about eating—it’s about removing friction from daily life.

Once you’re used to that level of logistics support, going without it feels strangely primitive. Like going backward.

In Colombia, going to the doctor doesn’t come with a financial stress test.

You don’t wonder if the visit was “worth it.”
You don’t leave bracing for a surprise bill.

Doctors spend time. Preventive care is accessible. Home visits still exist. Healthcare feels human instead of transactional.

Once you experience that, it’s hard not to notice how much anxiety is baked into the U.S. system—even with insurance.

In many Colombian cities, the weather simply… cooperates.

No scraping windshields. No shoveling. No waking up already annoyed.

You get dressed and go about your day.

And you don’t realize how much climate affects your mood, patience, and energy until it stops fighting you. After a while, winter stops feeling like a season and starts feeling like a personal choice.

Living abroad doesn’t just reveal what other countries do right—it also highlights what Americans rarely stop to appreciate.

The U.S. has something rare: a high floor and an extremely high ceiling.

Access to credit. Capital. The ability to fail and try again.

“Poor” in the U.S. doesn’t look like poor in many parts of the world—and that’s an uncomfortable truth worth acknowledging. The system has flaws, but it also allows reinvention in ways that are genuinely exceptional.

The U.S. interstate system is one of those things you never think about until you drive somewhere without one.

Consistency. Signage. Predictability.

In many countries, long-distance driving requires planning, patience, and luck. In the U.S., it’s so reliable that it fades into the background.

That’s a privilege.

American homes are large. Storage is normal. Closets exist.

In much of the world, space is expensive, intentional, and limited. You think carefully about what you keep.

In the U.S., expansion became the solution—and most people never question it until they live without it.

Buy something. Don’t like it. Return it.

No explanations. No suspicion.

That level of consumer protection is surprisingly rare globally. In many places, returns feel like negotiations—or small moral trials.

In the U.S., it’s just… policy.

Fast, reliable shipping has quietly reshaped American life.

Order today. Arrives tomorrow. Sometimes today.

You don’t track it obsessively. You assume it will arrive—because it usually does.

Once you leave that system, waiting weeks for delivery doesn’t feel patient. It feels like time travel.

This isn’t about choosing sides.

It’s about realizing that “normal” is not universal.

Most people argue about countries without ever leaving their own. But once you live somewhere else—even briefly—your perspective shifts. You stop defending systems reflexively and start evaluating them honestly.

You only know what you know.

And once you know more than one version of “normal,” you never look at life the same way again.