Which feels wild to type because wasn’t I just figuring out how to cross the street without a mild adrenaline rush? And now somehow this place feels like rhythm… routine… comfort. The kind of comfort that smells like rain on warm pavement and strong coffee dripping through a tiny metal filter at 6am.
Life here has slowly shifted from “wow everything is new” to “wow this is just… life.” And honestly? That’s the magic part no one talks about enough.
The everyday moments that became normal
Mornings are different here.
Back in Georgia, mornings meant somewhere to be. Responsibilities. Expectations… both from others and the ones I quietly placed on myself. Here, everything unfolds slower. Simpler. I start the day in my kitchen, coffee in hand, looking out over the rice fields while stretching away the stiffness of sleep. Fresh air drifting in. That quiet moment of gratitude that sneaks up on you when you realize how beautiful your everyday surroundings are.
On work days, the commute takes me past rice fields and small ponds filled with water buffalo. Across bridges with views of fishing boats. Past local shops where people are prepping for their day or perched on tiny plastic stools sipping coffee together.
The rhythm of the day feels different too. Early mornings. Midday naps to escape the heat. Evenings that stretch long after the sun sets.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like I was visiting and started feeling like I’m living.
And that tiny shift? Huge.
Work, purpose, and learning how to fill the space
This season feels different.
Work has slowed down. And instead of scrambling to find time for myself, I’ve found myself trying to figure out how to fill my days. Which… no one really prepares you for. We talk so much about being busy, booked, overwhelmed. But what about when the calendar has space?
At first it felt uncomfortable. Like I should be doing more. Building more. Pushing more.
But then I started exploring.
I tried macramé for approximately five minutes. Turns out knotting string into aesthetic wall art requires a level of patience I do not currently possess. Respect to the girls who can do it.
Then I discovered mini Legos. Not the giant childhood bucket… the tiny, intricate ones that require full concentration and maybe a deep breath or two. I love them. There’s something wildly satisfying about snapping those microscopic pieces into place.
Coloring books became a hot-summer-afternoon ritual. Fan on high. Iced coffee sweating beside me. No agenda except staying inside the lines… or not.
And then… plants happened.
It’s so easy to grow things here. Everything thrives. You stick something in soil and it basically says, “Got it.” I went all in. I had a potting table made so I could properly play in the dirt like the grown woman I am. Propagation jars started lining the windowsill. Trimming, snipping, watching roots slowly form in water… it’s oddly calming.
There’s something healing about tending to things that grow quietly. No launch plan. No marketing strategy. Just sunlight, water, and time.
Maybe this slower season isn’t about producing more. Maybe it’s about remembering who I am when I’m not building something.
And honestly? That feels like growth too.
The slow lessons Vietnam keeps teaching me
Vietnam is sneaky with its life lessons. They don’t arrive in dramatic movie moments. They show up quietly.
Like learning patience because things don’t move on your timeline.
Learning flexibility because plans change constantly.
Learning simplicity because happiness here often looks like plastic stools, street food, and laughter that spills into the sidewalk.
You realize how little you actually need to feel content. And how much of the “rush” back home was just… noise.
There’s something grounding about watching people prioritize family dinners, evening walks, and community every single day. It makes you question your own habits in the best way.
Community, connection, and getting back out there
When I first arrived, I craved quiet. Space. A break from always being “on” and social. Vietnam gave me exactly that. It was the perfect soft landing… a place to slow down, breathe, and reset without pressure.
But lately, something has shifted again.
I’ve felt this little spark of wanting people, conversations, shared energy. Inspiration from being around curious, creative humans. So I’ve started getting out of the house more… saying yes to social events… putting real clothes on before noon. Big milestones.
I even started a weekly coffee club meetup. Nothing fancy. Just coffee, conversations, and whoever shows up. And honestly, it’s been so good for my soul.
I miss LOKAL a lot. That vibrant, inquisitive, innovative kind of community that constantly buzzes in the background. Being around people who are building, dreaming, asking questions, trying things… it feeds me in a way that’s hard to explain.
Turns out solitude was exactly what I needed for a season. And now connection feels just as right.
The emotional side no one puts on Instagram
Living abroad stretches you in ways you don’t expect. There are moments of deep gratitude… and moments of homesickness that hit out of nowhere. Sometimes in the cereal aisle. Sometimes during holidays. Sometimes when you just want your favorite comfort food and it doesn’t exist within a 5,000 mile radius.
But those moments pass. And they’re balanced by the realization that you built a life somewhere completely new. That you figured things out. That you grew in ways you probably wouldn’t have if you stayed comfortable.
It’s a tradeoff… and one I’d choose again.
So… how does it feel after another year?
Grounded. Grateful. Still curious.
Vietnam isn’t just a place I moved to anymore. It’s a chapter of life that reshaped how I think about work, freedom, ambition, and what a “normal” life can look like.
And the biggest realization this year?
You don’t have to wait for someday to build a life that feels exciting and meaningful. Sometimes you just… buy the ticket, figure it out, and let the story unfold.
Here’s to another year of motorbike symphonies, big dreams, messy growth, and saying yes to the kind of life that once felt far away.
A Re-Discovered Life 