In a world where comfort zones feel like fortresses, two friends sat down to explore one of life’s most profound transformations: what happens when we voluntarily step into the unknown. This wasn’t just another conversation about travel or career moves—this was about the fundamental reshaping of identity that occurs when we leave everything familiar behind.
Arushi’s story began with a confession that resonates with anyone who has ever stood at the threshold of major change. Despite having gone through all the practical motions—applications, visas, preparations—the emotional reality hit differently.
I was not very much comfortable with the idea of I would have to leave, you know, not only my country, but more so my home. Like, I have been living with my parents ever since, and it just felt extremely uncomfortable to leave, the most safe space I felt. Of course, you know, not everything is hunky and dory, at home, but still it felt extremely safe. I knew the good and the bad part of living home. So it was very I would say, like, honestly, I wasn’t at a point of acceptance, I would say. The safety of home wasn’t just about physical comfort; it was about knowing exactly who she was within that ecosystem, understanding every dynamic, every expectation, every role she played.
What makes this moment particularly poignant is how it challenges our assumptions about readiness. We often think we need to feel prepared, confident, even excited about major life changes. But sometimes the most transformative decisions happen precisely when we’re not ready—when we choose to trust the process despite our fears.
There’s something almost mystical about what happens when familiar mirrors are removed. Back home, Arushi existed within a web of relationships that constantly reflected back certain versions of herself—daughter, student, the one who sleeps late, the one who needs guidance. But distance has a peculiar power to strip away these external definitions.
When you move and leave your country, there’s so much that breaks and builds within your own mind and heart that the good outcome of it is that you inevitably have to face yourself, and you have to, like, listen to yourself and, like, you surely get to know a lot about it. This isn’t just about independence in the practical sense of doing laundry or paying bills. It’s about the profound psychological shift that occurs when the voices that have always narrated your story suddenly become distant whispers, and you’re left with the sometimes uncomfortable task of discovering your own voice.
Perhaps the most striking transformation that emerges from this conversation is the development of what Arushi calls becoming “your own first responder.”
it really teaches you to be your own first responder. It teaches you how to speak to yourself, and it only teaches you, like, how how much, we live our life based on what other thing, what other want of us. But when you are alone here, I feel you have to show up for yourself so many times and in so many different ways, that you start building, one, your own character, two, your own, like, your own, basically, supporter or somebody who would stand up for you because there are many times when you wish that your family or your close friend or somebody would be here, but there are times when, you know, like, you just have to show up for yourself because you are not at that place. You’re not that home. This phrase captures something essential about the immigrant experience, but also about any journey that requires us to step away from our support systems.
The beauty and terror of this process is that it’s non-negotiable. When you’re alone in a new place, facing challenges both mundane and profound, you can’t outsource the work of showing up for yourself. You become intimately acquainted with your own resilience, your own capacity for problem-solving, your own ability to comfort yourself through difficult moments.
One of the most surprising revelations in their conversation was how physical distance actually strengthened family bonds.
I feel like once you live afar from each other, you really realize how much you, you cherish their presence. And I feel like, when you go back home, you know, temporarily or, like, permanently whatever you decide, just those, just those periods are way more joyful and way more accepting. This seems counterintuitive—shouldn’t being apart weaken relationships? But there’s something profound about how scarcity creates appreciation, how the absence of daily friction allows love to emerge more clearly.
When interactions become intentional rather than habitual, when time together becomes precious rather than assumed, relationships often deepen in unexpected ways. The very challenges that make leaving difficult ultimately become the foundation for more authentic connections.