That's the part we don't talk about enough.

We tend to associate leaving with something being wrong. A bad relationship. A terrible job. A toxic environment. Some dramatic falling-out that finally gives us permission to pack our shit and leave. But what happens when nothing particularly terrible has happened?
What happens when you simply realize that you've grown as much as you can in a particular place, relationship, or version of yourself?
Do you stay because it's familiar? Because you've invested years? Because somebody might be disappointed? Because you can't quite explain why something that once felt right doesn't anymore?

I've done all of that.

And let me tell you, I've spent enough years explaining myself to qualify for an honorary degree in justification. 😂 But something has changed.

When I left the United States more than four years ago, I knew I needed a different life. I'd reached a point where the environment, the conversations, the expectations, and the way I was experiencing everyday life no longer aligned with who I was.
I didn't wake up one morning and suddenly become somebody different.

I'd been changing for years.
Mexico was simply where I decided to give that changing woman somewhere to live.
And here's what I didn't fully understand back then.

Leaving was only the beginning.
Because you can pack your clothes, board an airplane, cross an ocean, and still carry the same thinking, habits, expectations, fears, and emotional attachments right along with you.

You can change your address without changing your life. I had to learn that. And I did. Slowly.

Through experiences. Through disappointments. Through quiet mornings and unexpected realizations. Through relationships that changed, interests that faded, and things I once considered important that somehow stopped mattering.
Nobody sent me a notification announcing that I'd outgrown something.

I just stopped reaching for it.

Take my relationship with America, for instance.
People still send me political videos, racial controversies, celebrity nonsense, and alarming news stories as though I'm sitting somewhere waiting for the latest installment.
And sometimes I look at my phone and think, Girl, what am I supposed to do with this? 😂
Not because I don't understand what's happening in the world. I understand plenty.

I spent more than fifty years living in America. I've witnessed enough, experienced enough, and accumulated enough knowledge of its history and injustices to fill a mental library.
I haven't forgotten any of it. But I don't live there anymore. And somewhere along the way, I stopped living there emotionally, too.

That's the part that took longer.

I no longer wake up looking for something to be angry about. I don't organize my days around the latest controversy. I don't feel compelled to participate in conversations simply because somebody else thinks they're important.

I live in Mexico. My days have a different rhythm. My interests have changed. My surroundings have changed. The people I encounter, the experiences I have, even the ordinary things that bring me pleasure have become part of a life I genuinely enjoy. And I didn't get here by arguing with the world until it became something I could tolerate.

I went. I chose another way to live.
But here's where those five little words started opening up something even bigger for me.
Because going isn't always geographical. Sometimes you have to leave a relationship without leaving behind your capacity to love.
Sometimes you have to stop participating in a conversation you've been having for twenty years, because you've already said everything you needed to say.
Sometimes you have to stop trying to be understood by people who are still relating to a version of you that no longer exists.
And sometimes, with mercy, you have to leave your own damn thinking behind. 😂

That one will keep you busy!

I think about how many times I've held on to something because I believed staying was the right thing to do. Staying meant loyalty. Staying meant commitment. Staying meant I hadn't given up. But I've come to understand that staying isn't always evidence of strength. Sometimes it's fear wearing a respectable outfit.
Fear of disappointing somebody. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of starting over. Fear of discovering that the next chapter doesn't come with instructions. And I've had to ask myself some uncomfortable questions.

Was I staying because I wanted to? Or because I'd become accustomed to putting my own needs somewhere near the bottom of the list? Was I still interested in this relationship, conversation, or experience? Or was I simply attached to who I used to be when it mattered to me?

Whew.

Those aren't always pleasant questions. But they're necessary ones. And I want to be clear about something. I don't believe every uncomfortable situation requires an exit. Sometimes growth asks us to stay, work through something, have a difficult conversation, or face a truth we've been avoiding.

I've learned things by staying, too. But staying should be a choice, not a sentence. And going doesn't guarantee anything.
You can leave a relationship and repeat the same patterns with somebody else. You can move across the world and recreate the same unhappy existence. You can walk away from a situation without ever examining the part you played in it.

Movement creates an opportunity.
Growth is what we do with it.

And that's what makes this season of my life so interesting. For years, I was moving. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Trying to find where I belonged. Trying to understand what I wanted. Trying to create something that felt like mine.

Since arriving in Mexico, I've lived in eight houses.

EIGHT!

Baby, I ought to have frequent-mover miles by now. 😂 But something happened when I moved into this house. I stopped thinking about the next one.
I hung my pictures. I arranged my furniture. I brought more plants. I started enjoying the ordinary little things that make a house feel like home. I wake up, make my bed, and go about my day. I cook. I write. I work. I listen to music. Sometimes I sit and do absolutely nothing, and I don't feel the slightest need to explain why.
And when evening comes, I return to my bedroom.
There's something deeply satisfying about that little routine.

For the first time in years, I'm not looking for somewhere else to be. Now isn't that something?
After all that going, all that movement, all that searching, I finally reached a place where I want to stay.

And yet, I'm still growing.

That's when I realized that movement doesn't always mean physically going somewhere.
Sometimes the movement happens inside you.
It's changing your mind. Releasing an expectation. Letting an old identity fall away. Recognizing that something you once needed no longer serves you.

Sometimes it's choosing peace over participation.

Sometimes it's allowing someone to love you without believing you have to earn it.
Sometimes it's simply waking up one morning and discovering that something which once consumed your thoughts hasn't crossed your mind in weeks.
And sometimes growth looks remarkably like stillness. Not because you've stopped evolving, but because you've finally stopped running from yourself.

I've spent a good portion of my life figuring things out the hard way. Some of those lessons cost me dearly. Some required leaving people and places I genuinely loved. Others required acknowledging that I'd been holding on to things long after they stopped nourishing me.

I don't regret the woman I was. She got me here.
Even when she didn't know where here was.

I look at my life today, and what strikes me most isn't what I've accomplished or what I've left behind. It's how much less I feel the need to explain. I don't need everybody to understand why I live the way I do. I don't need someone else to validate the choices I've made. I don't need to revisit every old conversation just because somebody wants to pick it back up.

I can love people and still need distance.
I can remember my past without living inside it.
I can appreciate what something once meant to me without needing it to remain part of my future.
And I can change. Again and again. Without apologizing for becoming someone new.

So when those five little words appeared in my mind today, I smiled. I must go to grow. Because I understand now that go isn't necessarily a destination. It's a willingness to move beyond what no longer fits. Beyond the familiar. Beyond the expectations. Beyond the person you've always been told you were. And sometimes beyond the person you once believed you had to be.

I don't know everywhere life will take me from here. I don't know what I'll outgrow next, what I'll discover, or what parts of myself are still waiting to emerge. And for once, I don't particularly need to know.

I'm enjoying where I am. I'm enjoying who I am.
And if tomorrow brings another reason to grow, I'll make room for it.
Maybe I'll have to leave something behind.
Maybe I'll have to embrace something unfamiliar.
Or maybe I'll just sit right here in my little piece of Mexico, surrounded by my plants, my music, my books, and the life I've created, and allow something inside me to change. Because after all these years, I've finally understood something.

I don't always have to go somewhere else to grow.
Sometimes I just have to be willing to go beyond who I was yesterday. And that, my friends, is movement enough.

"I thought I had to go somewhere else to find myself. What I discovered was that I had to leave some things behind to become myself."

Niki 🌱
Soul Soil: Writings from a Free Woman

I've lost weight before. And like so many people, I slowly gained it back. Living in the United States had taken a toll on me in ways I didn't fully appreciate until I left.

The food I was eating, my concerns about GMOs and processed ingredients, the lack of consistent exercise, the stress, the environment, and, if I'm being completely transparent, my own lack of self-care. All of it had become part of my everyday life. I was gaining weight, dealing with inflammation, and becoming accustomed to feeling less than my best.

And the crazy thing is, when you're living that way long enough, you almost forget what feeling good actually feels like.

Moving to Mexico didn't magically change everything. I still had to make decisions about my health. I still had to change habits, become more intentional about what I put into my body, and take responsibility for how I cared for myself.

But Mexico gave me something I desperately needed. An environment where taking care of myself became easier.

Fresh fruits and vegetables are accessible. Walking has become part of my everyday life. My stress levels have changed. My relationship with food has changed. And perhaps most importantly, my relationship with myself has changed.

I'm no longer just talking about prioritizing my well-being. I'm actually living it.

And the weight loss? That's the part you can see in these pictures. What you can't see is how much better I feel, how differently I move through my days, and how grateful I am to have given myself this opportunity.

At 57 years old, and I'm still discovering what my body is capable of when I give it the attention, nourishment, movement, and rest it deserves.

I don't look at those earlier pictures with embarrassment or regret. That's me, too. That woman made the decision to change her life, packed up everything, and moved to another country without knowing exactly how things would unfold.

And look at what she's doing now. ☺️

I didn't move to Mexico specifically to lose weight. I moved here to build a better life.

And somewhere along the way, that better life started showing up in my body, too.

For that, I am deeply, deeply grateful. ❤️🇲🇽

I was sitting there, minding my little plant business, putting soil into a pot, and something about that moment just felt so damn good. Not exciting in the way people usually describe excitement. I wasn't going anywhere. Nobody had invited me to anything. There was no special occasion.

I was home. And I wanted to be there.

Now, that might not sound like much to somebody else, but after more than four plus years of living in Mexico, I know exactly how much it means. Because I've lived in a lot of houses since I got here. Some were beautiful. Some were convenient. Some were neither, and a couple had me wondering what the hell I was thinking. 😂 But there was something every one of them had in common.

I was always thinking about what came next.

Even when I had just moved in, some part of me was already looking ahead. Where would I go after this? What neighborhood should I consider? How long would I stay? Would I ever find somewhere that actually felt right?

I wasn't necessarily unhappy every day. I had good experiences, made discoveries, built businesses, created memories, and learned more about myself than I could have imagined.

But I was still adjusting. Still exploring.

Still trying to figure out where I fit into this enormous country I'd chosen to call home. And then I moved out near Umán.

Now, don't ask me for my exact neighborhood, because I'm not telling y'all. 🤣 I've already watched what happens when everybody discovers the next hot place to live. Let me enjoy my little corner of Mexico in peace. But seriously, something is different here.

This morning, I went looking for fresh fruits and vegetables. I'd found one little shop nearby, but the selection wasn't quite what I needed. Then I remembered another place I'd noticed while looking at a house farther down in the neighborhood. So I went to check it out. BABY.

String beans. Cabbage. Potatoes. Tomatoes. Lettuce. Fresh vegetables everywhere. They even had chicken and beef!

I was standing there thinking, Wait a minute. You mean I have all of this right down the street?

And directly across the street? A pharmacy. Around the corner? A neighborhood tienda with practically everything else I might need.

There are food vendors around here, too. I love seeing that everyday neighborhood activity, even though I have to watch the salt in my food, so I don't eat from those stands very often. I'd rather pick up fresh ingredients and make my own meals anyway. And now I can. Without driving all over Mérida. Without making an entire production out of buying some damn cabbage. 😂

I've also discovered a nursery nearby, and today I came home with five beautiful plants. FIVE! I went looking for a couple and apparently decided I was opening a botanical garden. And Monday, I'm going shopping for inexpensive pots.

I've found banks, little shops, and services practically in my backyard. I'm walking more, moving my body naturally, and actually enjoying exploring the streets around me.

The neighborhood has people, businesses, and everyday activity, but it's peaceful. No constant barking dogs. No relentless noise. No feeling like I have to get in my car just to participate in everyday life.

And let me tell y'all something else, because this one is HUGE to me. The electrical wiring and internet lines in this neighborhood are UNDERGROUND! After living in seven different houses in Mexico, I've gotten so accustomed to storms knocking out the electricity or internet that I almost expect it. And with all the tropical weather we've been experiencing lately, even when these systems don't hit us directly, we can still get some serious rain.

But here? The streets aren't turning into lakes, and my electricity and internet have actually stayed on through the storms! Do y'all understand what that means to somebody who's spent years dealing with outages, flooding, and wondering when the damn internet was coming back? 😂 For the first time, I can hear the rain coming down and simply enjoy it without worrying about everything shutting off. The lights stay on. The internet stays connected. And I get to keep living my life.

BOOM! Now THAT is my kind of luxury!

And here's the part that still makes me shake my head. I'm paying 7,000 pesos a month for this house. My previous rental was 11,500 pesos. Four thousand five hundred pesos MORE for a place where I couldn't walk to a grocery store, where the barking and noise seemed endless, and where I never really felt settled. Now I'm paying less and getting more of the things I actually value. A beautiful home. Enough rooms. Space to breathe. A neighborhood I can walk around. Everything I need close by. And peace. My goodness, the PEACE.

The funny thing is, this is exactly what I moved to Mexico for. Not to recreate an American lifestyle at a lower price. Not to live surrounded by American chain restaurants and the same conveniences I left behind.

I wanted to experience Mexico.

The neighborhoods. The little family businesses. The fresh markets. The people selling food on the corner. The ordinary rhythms of a life that doesn't require jumping into a car every time you need something. I wanted a different way of living, not simply a different address. And I think that's something people don't always understand about relocating abroad.

Sometimes you arrive in a country long before you arrive in your life there. You can have your residency, your furniture, your bank account, your favorite restaurants, and still feel like you're figuring it all out.

I know because that's been my experience.

And I wonder sometimes how many people give up before they find their place. Not because they're incapable of adapting, but because the life they imagined hasn't quite materialized yet.

Of course, not everyone wants what I want. Some people love the northern part of Mérida, with its shopping centers and American-style conveniences. That's fine for them. But I didn't come all this way for that. I wanted something else. And today, sitting in my front yard with dirt on my hands, I realized I have it.

Here's how I know.

For the first time since moving to Mexico, I'm not thinking about where I'm going next. I'm thinking about what I'm going to do with the rooms I already have. Maybe one becomes my office. Maybe another stays available for my mother when she visits, if she eventually moves into a senior residence. I'm imagining how I want to arrange things, where I want to put my plants, what I want to create here. These aren't temporary plans made while waiting for the next opportunity.

These are things I want to do because I intend to stay. And yes, I know neighborhoods change. Development comes. People move in. Prices rise. I've watched it happen elsewhere in Mérida.

Maybe one day I'll decide to keep moving southwest and discover another little corner of Mexico that feels just as good. But that's not something I need to figure out today. I'm not going to pack my bags mentally before I've even finished unpacking emotionally.

I've done enough of that. Today, I want to be here.

I want to wake up in this house, walk through my neighborhood, buy my vegetables, make my meals, work on my writing, care for my plants, and enjoy the life I've been working toward for more than four years. And I don't need anybody else to understand why that feels so extraordinary.

I understand it.

This afternoon, I was sitting outside repotting a plant, doing one of the simplest things a person can do. And I was genuinely, ridiculously happy. I kept thinking about that dirt I'd been holding on to for months. All that time, I had everything I needed to repot the plant.

Today, I finally did it. And somewhere between scooping the soil and settling that plant into its new home, I realized something about myself. I'm not living here until I figure out what's next.

I'm living here. I think I've finally arrived. And for once, I don't feel the need to go anywhere.

But Monday?

Monday showed up with a clipboard, a schedule, and a whole lot of expectations. And wouldn't you know it, that damn clipboard belonged to me. 😂

I had things to do. At least that's what my mind kept telling me.

I should be doing this. I need to take care of that. I haven't gotten around to this other thing. And before I knew it, I had mentally assembled an entire workday without ever leaving my bed.

There was just one problem.

My body wasn't participating.

And this wasn't some leisurely decision to take a day off. My body required rest. Period. There was no committee meeting, no election, and certainly no opportunity for my mind to negotiate the terms.

After nearly three months of dealing with my mother's health crises, weeks of preparing to move, actually moving, managing responsibilities, and living in what felt like a perpetual state of hypervigilance, I was exhausted.

Not ordinary tired. Not the kind of tired that disappears after a decent night's sleep.

I mean the kind of exhaustion that comes from holding yourself together because life keeps requiring you to.

And now that things were finally settling down, something interesting was happening.

The emergencies had subsided, but apparently my internal emergency management department hadn't received the memo.

I was still operating as though something needed my immediate attention.

Even when it didn't.

So there I was, lying around on a Monday, feeling guilty because I wasn't doing what I thought I should be doing.

And I caught myself.

Wait a damn minute. Why am I feeling guilty about resting when my body is telling me it needs rest?

Who made this rule? And when exactly did I agree to it? Because somehow Sunday was acceptable, but Monday required an explanation.

Same body. Same exhaustion. Same need for recovery.

Different day on the calendar.

Girl, make that make sense.

I've been thinking about how much of my life has been organized around doing. Being responsible. Taking care of things. Anticipating needs. Handling problems. Making decisions. Getting through whatever needed to be gotten through.

And somewhere in all those years, I became accustomed to measuring my days by what I accomplished.

Even my free time had expectations attached to it.

If I wasn't doing something productive, shouldn't I at least be planning something productive?

Apparently, simply existing had become insufficient. And that realization caught me off guard.

Especially now.

I'm 57 years old. I've spent more than four years building a life in Mexico, moving from place to place, adjusting, shedding, starting over, making mistakes, and learning things about myself I couldn't possibly have understood when I first arrived.

I've finally found a home that feels like mine. My pictures are on the walls for the first time since leaving the States. My furniture, my artwork, my belongings, my history. I can look around and see myself everywhere.

And yet, here I was, in this beautiful space I'd worked so hard to create, struggling to give myself permission to simply enjoy being in it.

Now isn't THAT something?

For the past couple of days, I've been allowing myself to do less. Much less.

I even watched a movie, something I hadn't done in ages. A whole movie, y'all. Without turning the experience into an opportunity to multitask or figure out what I needed to do afterward.

Imagine that. 😂

And yes, that little voice occasionally showed up, reminding me of all the things I could be accomplishing. But I didn't jump up and obey it.

I listened to my body instead.

What's been surprising is realizing how unfamiliar that can feel. How deeply the expectation to be useful, busy, or productive can settle into our everyday lives until we barely recognize it as an expectation anymore.

It simply becomes the way we operate.

And I wonder how many times I've denied myself a moment of ease because I thought I needed to earn it first.

How many quiet afternoons have I filled unnecessarily?

How many times have I mistaken being busy for doing something meaningful?

I don't have answers to all of that. I'm not even sure I need them right now.

What I do know is that I'm beginning to recognize the difference between what genuinely requires my attention and what I've simply conditioned myself to believe requires it.

And honey, that is proving to be quite the conversation with myself.

Because after all these years of learning how to take care of responsibilities, I'm discovering just how uncomfortable it can be to have nothing pressing to take care of. Not because something is wrong.

But because nothing is demanding anything of me. And perhaps I've become so accustomed to demands that their absence feels unfamiliar.

I'm still sitting with that realization.

Literally.

It's Monday. There are things I could be doing.

But right now, I'm resting in a home that finally feels like mine, surrounded by the life I've spent years creating.

And for once, I'm not asking myself what I need to accomplish next.

I'm just here.

And today, that's enough.

They sit in my archive like little digital storage units full of shit I have no intention of using.

Events in Centro. Meetups. Dinners. Happy hours. Gatherings with people I don’t know, don’t particularly want to know, and have absolutely no intention of driving thirty or forty minutes across Mérida to meet. Every once in a while I would tell myself, maybe when things settle down I’ll go to something. Maybe I’ll meet some people. Maybe I’ll participate.

This morning I finally asked myself the obvious question.

Why?

Why the fuck am I still in these groups?

I don’t go to their gatherings. I don’t live anywhere near them. I don’t share their lifestyle. I don’t want to spend my time in Centro. I don’t want to drive across town to eat overpriced food in restaurants designed around foreigners with foreign money. I don’t want to sit around talking about Mexico with people whose primary relationship to Mexico seems to be filtered through other foreigners.

So I started leaving.

Exit group.

Exit group.

Exit group.

And the relief was immediate.

One of the groups is called “We Are Mérida.”

That name hit me differently this morning.

No the fuck you are not.
You are in Mérida.
You moved to Mérida.

You may love Mérida.

You may own property here, eat here, spend money here, retire here, build friendships here, even live here for the rest of your life.

But “We Are Mérida”?

That phrase carries something entirely different to my ear.

Maybe the people who created it never thought about the implications. Maybe they thought it sounded inclusive and catchy. Maybe nobody sat around rubbing their hands together plotting colonial domination over margaritas.

That isn’t even the point.
The point is what the language reveals.

“We are in Mérida” places you inside an existing place.

“We Are Mérida” places you at the center of it.

And as a Black woman living among brown people in a country with its own history, culture, language and identity, I hear that differently.

I cannot separate the language of claiming places from the history of Europeans entering lands that already had people, cultures, languages and civilizations and behaving as though arrival somehow conferred ownership. Naming. Claiming. Converting. Extracting. Reorganizing. Centering themselves. Treating existing people as background characters in somebody else’s expansion story.

History matters. Language matters.

And sometimes people reproduce an old posture without realizing they are doing it.

The longer I live outside the United States, the more sensitive I have become to the difference between living somewhere and consuming somewhere.

I have lived in Mérida for more than four years now. My life is not built around the expat experience anymore.

I am not a retired white woman living in Centro, eating out every day and building my social calendar around other foreigners. That is somebody else’s life. It is not mine.

I cook. I shop locally.

I know where to get a whole cooked chicken with rice, salad, salsa and all the fixings for around 150 pesos.

Meanwhile, I can go into an expat-oriented restaurant and somehow spend 710 pesos on shrimp, a salad, a soda and dessert and walk out wondering who the hell I just paid rent for.

Those are two different realities.
And money is only part of it.

If I have a problem in Mérida, the people who consistently help me solve it are Mexicans.

I need a repairman?
Somebody knows somebody.

I need to know where to buy a faucet without paying Home Depot prices?

Somebody knows the ferretería.

I need legal help?
A Mexican attorney knows the process.

I need somebody to move something, remove something, deliver something, fix something, explain something?

There is always somebody’s cousin, brother, neighbor, friend, mechanic, doctor, attorney, handyman or guy with a truck who knows exactly what the fuck to do.

And they usually give me information I didn’t even know I needed.

That has been one of the most consistent experiences of my life here.

Meanwhile, the expat groups I have belonged to mostly gave me more questions.

More chatter. More noise.

More foreign people asking other foreign people how Mexico works.
At some point I had to ask myself why I was still plugged into that.

Maybe because when you first move abroad, you think those are your people.

They speak your language.
They came from where you came from.
They understand the transition.
There is comfort in that.

But comfort can become a bubble.

And bubbles have walls.

That leads me to a question I have been sitting with: Did you move to another country, or did you bring your old country with you and build a fence around it?

Because I did not leave America to recreate America in Mexico.

I did not come here to rebuild the same social structures, eat at the same kinds of places, surround myself exclusively with Americans, complain about why Mexico does not operate like the United States and then congratulate myself for living abroad.

What exactly did I leave? Geography?
Because if everything else comes with me untouched, my social circle, expectations, habits, assumptions, comforts, cultural center, then I may have changed countries without changing perspective.

There are people who move abroad and remain psychologically located exactly where they came from.

I know because I have watched it.
And I know because pieces of it have existed in me too.

This is not me standing outside pointing at everybody else like I arrived enlightened.

Hell no.

I have had to shed my own American conditioning slowly.

I have had to learn that the way I was taught to live was not the only way to live.

I have had to rethink money.
Success.
Healthcare.
Housing.
Community.
Convenience.
Possessions.
Work.

Even what luxury means.

That process did not happen because I read a book about Mexico. It happened because I lived here.

Because I needed something and figured it out.
Because Mexicans helped me.
Because I made mistakes.
Because I got overcharged.
Because I learned neighborhoods.
Because I learned where not to go.
Because I learned where the little tienda is.
Because I learned who actually knows how to get shit done.
Because I stopped experiencing Mexico as a backdrop and started experiencing it as my everyday life.

That changes you if you allow it. And I think that is what has been happening to me.

I am beyond the expat experience.
That doesn’t mean I have become Mexican.
I haven’t.

I am a Black American woman who lives in Mérida, Mexico.

That distinction matters to me.
I don’t need to claim Mérida in order to belong in my life here.

I can love this city without pretending I am its essence.
I can respect the people whose country I entered.
I can participate without centering myself.
I can build a life here without turning Mexico into a theme park for my reinvention.

And maybe that is why those groups started irritating me before I consciously understood why.
They represented an identity I no longer wanted.

A version of migration that felt more like relocation without transformation.

Foreigners clustered together inside the city, eating together, socializing together, asking each other questions about the country they are all outsiders to.

And there I was, carrying those groups around in my phone even though I had already left them in my mind.

This morning my phone finally caught up.

Exit group.

Exit group.

Exit group.

It felt fucking wonderful.

There is something happening in my life right now that is much bigger than cleaning up WhatsApp.
I am becoming less willing to remain attached to things that no longer reflect me.

I have done enough editing of myself.

I have spent years making thoughts prettier, softer, more acceptable, easier for other people to swallow.

I am tired of that shit.
Some things I believe are going to irritate people.

Good.

Not because irritation is the goal.

Because honesty is.

If what I say resonates with you, beautiful.
If it pisses you off, maybe ask yourself why.

But I am no longer going to carve pieces off my experience so everybody else can digest me comfortably.

This is what I see.
This is what I have lived.
This is what four-plus years in Mexico has taught me.

There are different ways to move abroad.
You can remain a foreigner looking at the country.
Or you can slowly allow the country to change the way you look at the world.

I know which one I want.

I don’t want the bubble.
I want the people outside it.
The neighbors.
The vendors.
The tienda.
The woman who knows who to call.
The man who can fix something without turning it into a production.

The ordinary rhythms of an ordinary life.

I want the version of Mexico that exists when nobody is performing Mexico for foreigners.

That feels real to me. That feels grounded.
That feels like home. And I no longer need to belong to a WhatsApp group to tell me where I belong.

Lovingly living outside the bubble 🇲🇽💪🏼❤️ Niki

I have been living in Merida, Mexico for almost five years.

When I arrived this was a different city. Twenty minutes to get across town. Fresh fruit on every corner. A vegetable vendor coming through the neighborhood on a rickshaw. A pace and a quiet that felt like exhaling for the first time in decades.

That city is changing. And as a woman living here I think it is important to talk about what that change actually looks like from the inside.

The Merida I Arrived To

Merida has been consistently ranked one of the safest cities in North America. That reputation is documented and real. It is not tourist marketing. When I arrived the streets felt genuinely calm. The culture was cohesive. People looked out for each other. I felt safer here as a single Black American woman than I ever felt in the United States.

That matters. It is why so many expats chose this city. It is why I chose this city.

But safety is not a static thing. It is a living condition that changes with the conditions around it.

What Is Changing

The influx is real and it is significant. Americans and Canadians have been coming for years. But what I am observing now is something broader. Mexicans from other states, from Mexico City, Jalisco, Guadalajara, Campeche, Guatemala, are moving here in large numbers. People fleeing violence and instability in other parts of the country and region. People looking for exactly what I came here looking for. Safety. Stability. A better quality of life.

I understand that impulse completely. I am one of those people.

But Merida is a small big city. The infrastructure was not built for this volume. What used to take twenty minutes now takes forty. The roads are the same roads. The systems are the same systems. And the cultural fabric that made this place what it was is under pressure in ways that were not visible four years ago.

American consumerism has followed the Americans. Fast food chains that did not exist here when I arrived are now on every corner. Drive-throughs. Chain restaurants. The same homogenization that hollowed out American neighborhoods is showing up here. I do not count that as progress. I count it as a warning sign.

The Femicide Conversation Nobody Is Having in Expat Content

Earlier this year Yucatan state authorities issued formal alerts over rising cases of gender based violence and sexual crimes. That is not community gossip. That is an official government acknowledgment that something is shifting.

The verified data shows that Yucatan recorded one confirmed femicide and three attempted femicides in just the first quarter of 2026. By October 2025 the state had confirmed six femicides for the year, nearly matching the entire previous year’s total. Nationally Mexico averages twelve women murdered daily. Yucatan has historically been the exception to that national crisis. But the trend line is moving in the wrong direction.

Machismo is not new here. It has always existed beneath the surface of the gentleness and the warmth that expats experience and celebrate. What is new is that as the city changes, as new populations move in carrying different cultural norms and different histories of violence, the protections that made Merida different are being tested.

I want to be precise about what I am saying. I am not saying Merida is dangerous. The data does not support that conclusion. What I am saying is that the Merida of 2026 requires more awareness than the Merida of 2021. And women living here or planning to move here deserve to have that conversation honestly rather than inside a bubble of expat optimism that filters out the parts that are complicated.

What This Means for Women Living Abroad

Know your surroundings. Not from fear but from presence. The same attentiveness that kept you safe in America applies here. Do not let the beauty and the warmth of this culture lull you into the kind of disengagement that makes you invisible to your own environment.

Build relationships with local women. Mexican women who live here know things that no expat Facebook group will ever tell you. They know which neighborhoods are shifting. They know which situations to avoid. They have the lived intelligence of people who have always navigated this place.

Stay connected to what is actually happening. Local news in Spanish will tell you things that English language expat content will not. The Yucatan Times covers incidents that never make it into expat community posts. Read it.

And if you are still planning your move do not let this article stop you. Let it inform you. There is a difference.

I am not leaving Merida because of this but I am moving further outside the city. Away from the congestion, the fast food, the traffic that has doubled in four years. I am looking for the version of this that still exists. Quieter. Smaller. Less colonized by the same forces I came here to escape.

The city I arrived to was extraordinary. What it is becoming is a mirror of everywhere else. And I think we owe it to ourselves and to each other to say that out loud.

🖤 TiaNikitheOracle

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

Share

I want to tell you something about Mexican people that nobody in expat content is saying out loud.

They are going to be in your business. And you should let them.

Not because they are gossips. Not because they are intrusive. But because in Mexican culture being in your business means they see you. And being seen here is not a threat. It is an offering.

I have been living in Mexico going into my fifth year. And one of the most honest things I can tell any expat considering this move is this. Other expats cannot help you navigate Mexico. They are lost too. Still trying to figure out where to find things, who to call, how systems work, where to go for what. A fellow expat is a companion in confusion at best.

A Mexican friend is a masterkey.

Today I had an issue with my Mexican bank account. I recently got approved for my first Mexican credit card and ran into a problem. I called my lawyer. He met me at the bank. And here is what happened next that no amount of expat Facebook group advice could have produced. He knew the man who works there. Personally. He walked me past the line, past the confusion, directly to the person who could solve my problem. Done.

That is how Mexico works. It is one people. Deeply connected. And if you earn a place in that network even a small one the doors that open are extraordinary.

I know the woman at my regular supertortas spot. She does not speak English. I do not speak enough Spanish yet. We use a translator between us and we have built something real in those small exchanges. One day she asked me who I was here with. I told her. She asked about my friends. I told her not many. She said you need an emergency contact. And she gave me her name and her number and told me if I ever have a problem or need anything to reach out.

A stranger. Who became something more than that. Because that is who Mexicans are.

They do not compartmentalize people the way American culture does. They are not sizing you up for your status or your usefulness. They are just people who understand that people need people and act accordingly.

I have had a mechanic look at my car and refuse payment until the work was done. I have had the trash pickup take extra boxes for me and hand me back half the money I gave him because he felt it was too much.

That is integrity. That is sovereignty. That is a people whose history of fighting for their freedom shows in how they move through the world every single day. The cohesiveness you see in Mexican culture, the way they protect each other, show up for each other, advocate for each other without being asked, is the fruit of a people who know exactly who they are and where they come from. That strength did not happen by accident.

I prefer Mexican friends over expat friends and I will say that without apology.

Not because expats are bad people. But because Mexicans have something expats in a new country simply do not have yet. Roots. Knowledge. Access. And a generosity with all three that I have not experienced anywhere else.

They are not holding a version of me from before Mexico. They do not know that version. They only know who I am right now, in this place, in this chapter. That is a rare and healing thing to experience when you have spent most of your life being held to who you used to be.

I am learning Spanish because I want more of this. I want to go deeper. I want friendships that do not need a translator. I want to sit at a table with people who belong to this land and have them know that I belong here too even if I was not born here.

So let them be nosy. Let them ask questions. Let them give you their number before you ask for it.

They are not in your business. They are just making sure you are okay. And in a world where that is increasingly rare that is everything.

🖤 Niki

Where to Buy My Books:

Breaking Free! Unplugging from the Matrix & Leaving the U.S. BS Behind! https://amzn.to/4nQBaCb
All My Heroes Married White Women https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FZYCRLXC

Explore More Travel Books: https://amzn.to/4uyIWTZ
If you are traveling to Mexico…You WILL Need THIS! TRUST ME! https://amzn.to/42V6hD3

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

Share

I was watching two men recently. Same era. Same record label. Same starting point in life. One of them has a sold out European tour in 2026. Full year. Different countries. Different stages. Reaching beyond every border he ever knew. The other one is in the same city. Same chains. Figuratively and literally. No movement. No increase. Just the comfortable loop of what has always been. Same beginning. Completely different relationship with comfort. That contrast would not leave me alone.

Comfort is not the enemy. Let me be clear about that upfront. Earned comfort is one of the most beautiful things a human being can experience. The comfort that comes after the climb. After the risk. After the thing you were terrified to do that you did anyway. That comfort is medicine.

But there is another kind of comfort. The kind that keeps you exactly where you are. The kind that feels like safety but is actually a very sophisticated cage. And a lot of us are living inside it right now calling it peace.

The addiction to comfort is real. And like most addictions it is invisible from the inside. Fear is comfortable once you get used to it. Abuse is comfortable once you get used to it. A city that never fit you is comfortable once you have lived there for thirty years. Comfort does not mean good. It means familiar. And the nervous system cannot always tell the difference.

I spent decades in a city wearing a life like a shoe two sizes too small. Toes tensed. Adjusting. Bearing it. And the wild thing is that most people around me were doing the same thing. We had all just agreed collectively to call the tightness normal.

Some people, I have come to believe, would not want a shoe that fits. Because the right fit would feel strange. Different from what they know. And different is uncomfortable even when it is better.

That is the addiction.

The most uncomfortable thing I have ever done was move to Mexico. On this side of it, it does not look nearly as daunting as it did before I jumped. But in the moment it required me to reach outside of everything familiar. Every system I knew. Every relationship that defined me. Every comfort I had built my survival around.

And here is what I found on the other side.

I am more comfortable now than I have ever been in my life. But it is not the comfort of staying. It is the comfort of arriving. There is a difference and it matters.

The drug addict knows this too. The drug is comfortable. It soothes. It copes. It takes the edge off whatever is too sharp to feel directly. But when they finally get free, the comfort of freedom, of a job, of an apartment, of their life returning to them piece by piece, that comfort is so much deeper than anything the drug ever offered.

We sometimes surrender the real thing because the counterfeit is already in our hand.

So how do you overcome it.

Discipline is uncomfortable. That is not a punishment. That is the mechanism. Every time you do the thing that stretches you, you expand what comfort means for you. The comfort zone does not disappear. It grows. And what used to terrify you becomes the new floor.

Start with one thing. Not everything. One door you have been standing outside of because opening it felt like too much. One conversation you have been avoiding. One plan you have been calling a dream because dream requires less of you than plan does.

Discomfort is not the opposite of comfort. It is the price of a bigger one.

And on the other side of it there is a version of your life that fits.

Not tight. Not adjusted to. Not survived. Actually fits.

🖤 TiaNikitheOracle

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

Share

I was minding my business. Scrolling Instagram on a Saturday morning like any other. Coffee. Quiet. The kind of peace I moved to Mexico to find. Then a reel stopped me cold. Workers. Laser equipment. The Monumento a la Patria on Paseo de Montejo that massive, iconic stone monument I drive past regularly like it’s just scenery. And they were cleaning it. Meticulously. Professionally. With expensive technology.

I watched it confused for a second. Why is this blowing up? Then I remembered.

I had driven past that monument weeks earlier and noticed writing all over it. Spray paint. Names. Words I didn’t stop to read. I remember thinking it looked like graffiti and kept moving. I didn’t know what I was looking at. I had zero context. Turns out I had driven past a wall of testimony and didn’t know it. So here is actually what happened, check it out!

On March 8th, 2026 International Women’s Day approximately 8,000 women marched through Mérida, Yucatán. They started at Parque de la Mejorada. They moved through the streets. They ended at the Monumento a la Patria on Paseo de Montejo the monument that literally translates to Monument to the Fatherland. When they got there, the government had placed metal barriers around it. To protect it.

The women tore the barriers down. Climbed the monument. And painted it with names. Real names. Women’s names. Girls’ names. Disappeared. Murdered. Unresolved. Gone.

They raised the feminist flag. They chanted “fuimos todas” we all did it. Then they went home. Two months later, the government sent a laser company to erase it.

That’s what I saw on Instagram.

Here is where the “Rabbit Hole” gets deep. I had no context for any of this. None. I knew nothing about this march, these women, or what’s been happening right here in the city where I live.

So I started asking questions. And every answer pulled me deeper. Here’s what I learned. Mexico has one of the worst records for violence against women in the entire world. Not the region. The world. Approximately 10 women are killed every single day in Mexico. The femicide rate doubled in the last five years. Only Brazil has more femicide cases in Latin America.

Femicide. I want to make sure we’re clear on this word because it matters. Femicide isn’t just a woman dying. It’s a woman being killed specifically because she is a woman. By a husband. A boyfriend. A stranger who decided her life was his to take. Bodies left in fields. Women disappearing on their way to work. Cases opened and closed without a single arrest. And the prosecution rate? Only 8% of femicides in Mexico are ever punished. 8%. Which means 92% of the men who kill women in this country walk free.

Machismo isn’t just a song sung. When I started digging into WHY this keeps happening, one word came up everywhere.

Machismo.

Now I grew up hearing “Macho Man” by the Village People. That’s my GenX reference. But machismo is not a song. It’s a cultural operating system one that treats male dominance as natural, expected, and protected. It lives in the home. In the police station. In the courtroom. In the presidency.

The same men who are supposed to investigate these crimes were raised in the same culture that produced them. Women who report violence are asked if they were drunk. If they’re sure they want to file a report. Most cases are dismissed before they begin. The former president before Claudia Sheinbaum? He publicly called reports of femicide exaggerated. Said they were fake designed to make his government look bad.

While women were disappearing.

But I was like “WAIT, THEY HAVE A FEMALE PRESDENT!” I know. I caught the contradiction too. Mexico elected Claudia Sheinbaum in 2024. Their first female president in 200 years of history. And yet. During her time as Mexico City’s head of government before becoming president femicides increased by 7.7%.

Sound familiar?

Barack Obama. 2008. Black people wept in the streets. Wept. Because the symbolism was that powerful. And symbolically yes, it was historic. But symbolism and policy are not the same thing. While Obama was in office, Trayvon Martin was killed. Eric Garner was killed. Michael Brown was killed. The system that produced those deaths didn’t change because a Black man sat at the top of it.

A woman can hold power inside a patriarchal system without dismantling that system. She got there by working within the existing structure not by burning it down. The 8,000 women who marched in Mérida on March 8th already knew this. That’s WHY they marched. They have a female president AND they’re still painting names on walls.

This felt so familiar and here is WHY! As a Black American woman living abroad I recognized this immediately once I understood it.

In the United States, when a white woman goes missing, networks break into regular programming. There are press conferences. Search parties. Amber Alerts. Nancy Grace specials. Black girls go missing by the hundreds. By the thousands. And the news cycle doesn’t flinch. There’s actually a term for it Missing White Woman Syndrome because researchers noticed and named the disparity. Whose disappearance is treated as a national emergency. Whose disappearance is treated as a statistic.

Those Mexican women who painted names on the Monumento a la Patria? They were doing the same thing Black mothers in America have been doing for generations demanding that somebody see their daughters. The grief is identical. The invisibility is identical. Only the geography is different. And underneath it all the same root system.

Patriarchy.

Machismo is just patriarchy with a Latin American accent. The American version shows up as redlining, welfare queen stereotypes, forcing Black women to carry everyone while nobody carries them. The Mexican version shows up as femicide, impunity, and spending money on laser equipment to erase women’s names from stone instead of finding their bodies.

Different cultures. Same system. Same result: certain women’s lives don’t count. What I saw in the comment section said it all! When that laser cleaning video went viral, the comment section told the whole story. One comment 2,500 likes said: “Good. Let the government pay to erase the wounds it refuses to acknowledge and solve.”

Another said: “It’s easier to send people to remove paint than to protect women in the streets.”

Another: “If only the government were this organized about finding the disappeared and murdered women.”

The people aren’t confused. They understand exactly what the laser equipment represents. The government moved fast to erase those names. The same urgency was never applied to finding the women the names belonged to.

So I am sitting with this … I drove past that monument and saw spray paint and kept moving. I almost stayed ignorant. Almost let it be background noise in a city I love. But something made me stop on that reel. Something made me ask questions. And now I can’t unknow what I know.

I live in Mérida. I walk these streets. I pass that monument. And right here in one of the safest states in Mexico women are still going missing. Girls are still going missing. And the government’s most visible response was to hire a laser company.

I didn’t come to Mexico to be naive. I came for peace, safety, and sovereignty. And I found it genuinely. But peace doesn’t mean looking away. Sovereignty means being awake to the world you’re living in.

Those women who marched on March 8th? They weren’t performing. They were grieving and resisting at the same time. Writing names on the Fatherland’s most iconic monument because the Fatherland keeps erasing their daughters.

That’s not vandalism. That’s testimony. And the fact that the government’s first instinct was to erase it instead of answer it told us everything we needed to know.

Tia Niki the Oracle| Soul Soil Written from Mérida, Yucatán, México May 2026

If this piece moved you, share it. The women whose names were painted on that wall don’t have a Substack. We do. Use it.

Share

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

I’m sitting in Mérida, Mexico, watching America dismantle itself in real time. And I have tears in my eyes. Not for the country. For the people still in it.

Last week the Supreme Court gutted Section 2 of the Voting Rights Act. The 1965 law that Black people bled for. Marched for. Died for.

Gone. 6-3. Along party lines. Like clockwork.

And within one hour, one hour... Florida had already passed a gerrymandered map designed to erase four Democratic seats. That’s not coincidence. That’s coordination.

Let me break down what this actually means. Not in legal language. In block language. Picture your grandmother’s neighborhood. Pothole on the street for three years. School lost its arts program. Nearest grocery store is four miles away. Cops take 45 minutes to show up. You know why that happens? Because nobody who represents her district actually needs her vote. Her neighborhood got split across three districts so Black voters are always the minority in each one. Nobody has to serve her. So nobody does. Majority-minority districts were the fix for that. Concentrate enough Black voters in one place so a representative actually has to show up.

The Supreme Court just called that the racism. You heard me right. The protection became the crime. And it doesn’t stop at Congress. City councils. County commissions. School boards. State legislatures. Local judges. District attorneys. Every level where Black people fought for a seat at the table gone. Not through violence. Through math.

Now add this.

AI data centers are being built right now in Black neighborhoods and poverty communities across the country. There is available land. There are alternative locations. They chose these neighborhoods anyway.

Cheaper land. Weaker political resistance. And now legally toothless resistance. No representation means no zoning fights they have to take seriously. No environmental impact hearings that carry weight. No city council member who needs those votes.

Build whatever you want. Wherever you want. On whoever you want.

This is what environmental racism looks like with a Supreme Court cosign. Some people are calling this a setback. I’m calling it what it is the completion of a 40-year demolition project. It started with Nixon’s Southern Strategy in 1968. Coded racism as “law and order.” Flipped the South. Reagan accelerated it. Packed the courts. Gutted civil rights enforcement. Planted Federalist Society judges like seeds. They’ve been patient. Methodical. Interlocking. We called it politics. They called it architecture.

I keep thinking about the people who said ICE wasn’t their problem. “I’m not an immigrant. I’m not undocumented. I’m safe in my home.” The categories were never real. They were crowd control. A way to delay the resistance by dividing who gets to feel threatened.

America has always had a sequence. And Black Americans were always in it. We just weren’t told which page we were on.

My mother is 79 years old. She lived through the Civil Rights Movement. She watched people bleed on that bridge. She voted. She prayed. She worked. She believed. And now she’s watching everything that generation fought for get erased by six people in robes. I don’t have words for what that costs.

America is “sickyclical”. Each phase expands. Each cycle gets bolder. The cup fills but a cup can only hold so much before it topples.

I don’t know when that happens. I don’t know what comes after.

What I know is this: I left four years ago and didn’t understand the fullness of why until now. I thought I was chasing opportunity. I was outrunning a timeline.

And if you’ve been watching from the outside like me. Love yourself into the present. Be thankful for where you are and who you are.

And keep bearing witness. Because somebody has to name what’s happening.

That’s us.

— Niki the Oracle, writing from the side of history

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

I watched a documentary recently about a man who became so consumed by the character he created that he lost the person underneath it. The performance became the identity. The mask became the face. And somewhere in all of that fame and spectacle Terry disappeared and only the character remained.
I understood it more than I wanted to.
Because I almost did the same thing.

Tia Niki was created with intention. A teacher of liberation. A guide for people ready to leave the U.S. BS. She was sharp and confident and certain in ways that Niki sometimes is not. And for a while she worked. She opened doors. She reached people. But somewhere along the way she started to feel like a costume of consumption that I could not take off and after years, the distance between who she was and who I am started to feel like a canyon.

I had to make a choice. And I chose me.

Here is what I have come to understand about characters and why we create them.

The person is imperfect. Complex. Unsure. Scared sometimes. Fragile in places we do not show anyone. The character is designed. Intentional. Premeditated. Built to project strength in the exact places the person feels most vulnerable.

So we hide inside them. Not because we are dishonest but because the world has not always been safe enough for the real version of us to walk around in.

America especially rewards the performance. The song. The dance. The spectacle. Sports, entertainment, celebrity worship, all of it is built around the character never the person. We cheer for the costume and call it love. And the person inside the costume spends a lifetime wondering if anyone would stay if they took it off.

I think about reincarnation sometimes. The idea that the soul returns in different forms to play different roles. One lifetime the teacher. Another the student. One life the healer. Another the one who needs healing. We are always playing a character in some sense. The question is whether the character serves the soul or swallows it.

When the character swallows the soul it creates a particular kind of loneliness. You are surrounded by people who love what you perform and starving for someone who knows who you actually are. That hunger is real. I have felt it. I think most people have felt it even if they cannot name it.

But here is what I also know.

Being yourself in this world takes more courage than any character ever required. It is quieter. Less applauded. Sometimes genuinely lonely. But it lets more of life in. Nature. Art. Real relationships. Learning. The ability to forgive yourself for being human. The ability to love yourself without conditions.

Self acceptance is what makes the mask useless.

Not self improvement. Not performance. Not becoming a better version of the character. Self acceptance. The radical decision to stop fighting the war between who you are and who you told everybody else you were.

That war is exhausting. And it is optional.
You do not have to win it. You just have to put down the weapons.

America has a way of making that almost impossible. The noise is relentless. The pressure to be productive, presentable, palatable, performing at all times. And it bleeds beyond borders. I can walk around the corner from where I live in Mexico and find a Wendy's, Dairy Queen, KFC, McDonald's, 7/11, Walmart, Sam’s Club or Costco. The colonization of comfort and convenience and distraction has no passport. It follows you.

But here is what does not follow you as easily. The version of yourself that was built to survive that specific pressure. When you remove yourself from the environment that required the performance you get a chance to find out who you actually are without it.

That is one of the quiet gifts of living abroad that nobody puts in the brochure.
The mask gets heavy when there is nobody left to perform for.

And in that heaviness you find something you may not have touched in years.

Yourself.

I am not saying it is easy. I am saying it is worth it. You are not alone in the weight of it. Most people are walking around in costumes they have been wearing so long they forgot what they look like underneath.

Take it off when you are ready.
What is under there is enough.

🖤 NikitheOracle

Black women in Germany saying their health transformed after leaving the United States. A woman whose diabetes had been unmanageable for eight years watched it reverse in less than 90 days after moving to Berlin. Another woman who delivered a baby in Germany walked out of the hospital with her child and a bill for zero dollars. Prescriptions costing twelve dollars instead of hundreds.

I was not surprised. I was validated.

Because I have felt it too. Not in Germany but in Mexico. The lower stress. The cleaner food. The slower pace. The absence of the particular kind of exhaustion that comes from navigating a country that was not built with your wellbeing in mind.

What this article confirmed for me is that the health benefits of leaving America are not accidental. They are systemic. When you remove yourself from a system designed around profit over people your body responds. When you eat food that has not been engineered for addiction your body responds. When you stop white knuckling your way through a healthcare system built on debt and fear your body responds.

Germany is not perfect. The article is honest about that. Medical racism exists there too. Finding Black doctors or English speaking mental health practitioners takes effort. The colorblind approach to healthcare data is a real debate among Black expats there. These things matter and they deserve to be part of the conversation.

But the access. The affordability. The baseline dignity of receiving care without wondering if it will bankrupt you. That is what Black women in Germany are reporting and it is worth paying attention to.

This is not just a Germany story. This is an expat health story. And it is one more piece of evidence that for many of us leaving was not running away from something.

It was running toward our own survival.

I asked the hosts of the Tia Niki Travel Vault Podcast to dig deeper into this conversation. Germany as a destination, the healthcare system, what Black expats are actually experiencing there, and what it means for anyone considering a move abroad for health and quality of life reasons.

Link to the full podcast.

CAPITAL NEWS ARTICLE

Germany FREE Healthcare

Expat Healthcare Basics

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

When I first started talking about moving abroad the reactions I got told me everything I needed to know about the people around me.

Not all of it was bad. My father surprised me first. Instead of doubt or concern he looked at me and asked what I was waiting for. That kind of encouragement from a parent lands differently. It does not just validate the decision it accelerates it. His words were a push I did not know I needed and I have never forgotten it.

Then there was my sister. She thought it was a poor decision. Could not believe I was serious. And even after I packed up my life and actually moved to Mexico she still could not wrap her mind around it. Some people need to see it to believe it and even then the belief does not always come.

But the reactions that truly surprised me were not from my immediate family. They came from the extended circle. Friends. Cousins. People I had known for years. And what I noticed was fascinating and honestly a little unsettling.

A lot of people took on my identity.

My story to leave became their story to leave. People who had never once mentioned moving abroad, never discussed it, never brought it up in a single conversation, suddenly were talking about it like it had always been their dream too. Like my decision unlocked something in them that was apparently just sitting there waiting for someone else to go first.

I found that deeply interesting. And I will be honest, I also found it intrusive. Because there is a difference between being inspired by someone and absorbing their journey as your own. I was not a template. I was a person making a specific decision about my specific life. But I think what happens is that when someone in your circle does something bold and countercultural it forces everyone around them to reckon with their own unlived desires. And that reckoning can look a lot of different ways. Some people cheer you on. Some people pull away. Some people try to come along for the ride without ever actually moving.

I felt the ones who pulled away. I always feel things like that. And I understood it even when it hurt.

Then there were the promises.

When I first moved I got a larger home. Extra bedrooms. I was accommodating the people who said they were coming. Family members. Friends. People who swore they would visit. That was four years ago. Nobody came. Not one person showed up.

I stopped waiting a long time ago.

And I do not say that with bitterness. I say it because I think it is one of the most universal and least talked about experiences in expat life. You leave. You build something real. You open the door. And the people you thought would walk through it simply do not. Maybe they are afraid. Maybe life gets in the way. Maybe the gap between wanting to go somewhere and actually going somewhere is wider than most people ever close.

What I have noticed is that daughters visit mothers. I see that. Parents and adult children making the trip to be together across borders. But extended family? Old friends? Sisters and brothers and aunties and uncles? That is rare in my experience and in the experiences I have observed. The promises are plentiful. The follow through is not.

I think if people wanted to come they would come. Four years is enough time. A lifetime of waiting would not change it for some of them and I have made peace with that.

What I have not fully made peace with is the why. Why do people promise what they never intend to deliver? Why does someone else’s courage to leave trigger such complicated responses in the people who stay? Why do some people step away from you the moment you outgrow the version of yourself they were comfortable with?

I do not have all the answers. But I think it is time we talked about it.

Because if you are an expat or thinking about becoming one you need to know this going in. The journey changes you. And not everyone in your life will know what to do with the person you are becoming. Some will celebrate it. Some will disappear. And some will tell everyone they are coming to visit.

They probably are not coming. But you are already there. And that is everything.

Listen to the full conversation on the Tia Niki Travel Vault Podcast.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Share

I spent six hours driving around Merida going from bank to bank.

Thirteen banks. Twelve rejections. My American debit card declined at every single one until I finally pulled into an HSBC and the machine accepted it. Six hours. One card. One city. One problem that should not have existed. Finally finding ONE bank that would accept by card and give me access to my OWN money!

That is technology in the expat life. Not the glossy version. The real one.

Here is what happened. My bank merged with another institution. The card changed. What was once a Visa or Mastercard became a Discover card overnight. And Mexico, like much of the world outside the United States, runs primarily on Visa and Mastercard. Discover is not widely accepted here. American Express is barely tolerated. So one corporate merger that I had no say in, no warning about, and no control over turned a simple errand into a six hour ordeal.

That is the technology story nobody tells you before you move abroad.

In my opinion what technology replaced. I am not here to say technology is bad. I am here to say it complicated things that used to be simple. And sometimes the simplicity we lost mattered more than we realized.

Remember corded phones? You would talk for hours. Fall asleep on the phone with someone you loved. The voice was the connection. There was no other option so you used it fully.

Text messages replaced that. Then social media replaced text messages. And somewhere in all that replacing we lost the voice. We kept the connection in name but hollowed out what it actually felt like.

Tower Records. You walked in, you touched the album, you talked to someone behind the counter who knew music. You had an experience. Online shopping replaced that. Faster, cheaper, more convenient. Also lonelier. Also more isolated. Also one more reason not to leave the house.

Food delivery. Same story. Easier. Also one more reason to never speak to another human being face to face.

I am not saying any of these things are wrong. I am saying they replaced something. And what they replaced had a texture and a warmth that the digital version does not fully replicate.

But what Technology Created WOW.

Access. There is no question about that. As an expat technology gave me access to things that would have been impossible twenty years ago. I can run multiple businesses from Mexico. I can bank internationally. I can communicate with family in real time. I can find doctors, translators, and resources that my predecessors living abroad simply did not have.

But access came with complexity.

Passwords. Every platform, every account, every service requires one. And they cannot be the same. And they expire. And they get hacked. And then there is two factor authentication. And then the verification code goes to a phone number that is no longer active because you changed carriers when you moved abroad. And suddenly you are locked out of your own account in a country where the customer service line does not work with your Mexican number.

Screennames. Digital identities. Multiple accounts across multiple platforms each with its own rules and requirements. The average person manages dozens of accounts. The average expat manages all of that plus the additional complexity of operating across two countries, two currencies, and two sets of digital infrastructure that do not always speak to each other.

Digital IDs. Longer lines at government offices because now everything requires a form that requires a code that requires an account that requires a verification that requires a document you left at home.

Identity theft. A whole new category of crime that did not exist at scale before the digital age. Your information floating across servers in countries you have never visited, accessible to people you will never meet.

Now the the Expat layer we need to talk about. All of this is complicated for everyone. For expats it is amplified. Communication is the first thing. In Mexico WhatsApp is the primary communication tool. In America almost nobody uses it. So staying connected to family back home requires educating them on a platform they have no reason to use. Or paying for international calling. Or maintaining two phones. Which I do. Because the alternative is silence.

Banking is the next frontier. Opening a local bank account here requires residency documentation. Some banks accept temporary residency. Others require permanent. And even after you navigate that process and get a local Visa or Mastercard that actually works in Mexico you still need your American account for US transactions. Which means two accounts, two sets of fees, two sets of transfer rules, and the constant management of moving money between them without triggering fraud alerts or transfer holds.

For international transfers I had to learn about Wise. And Cash App. And Venmo. And which ones work across borders and which ones do not. And what the fees are. And what the limits are. And what happens when a transfer gets flagged.

Charles Schwab has no foreign transaction fees and reimburses ATM fees globally. That is the kind of specific knowledge that takes months to accumulate and that nobody puts in the brochure.

Technology did not make life worse. It made it different. And for expats it made it more layered, more dependent on knowing the right platforms and the right workarounds and the right banks in the right cities that will actually accept your card.

The six hours I spent driving around Merida was not a technology failure in isolation. It was the accumulation of every assumption technology makes about where you live, what card you carry, and what system you are operating inside of.

For those of us who stepped outside the system, the complications are real. And nobody is talking about them.

Until now. Click the image above and listen to the full conversation on the Tia Niki Travel Vault Podcast

Share

Subscribe now

Most people have heard the term culture shock. Very few understand what it actually feels like in the body, in the mind, and in the identity before you ever leave home.

I want to change that.

Because if you are thinking about moving abroad or you are already out here navigating it, you deserve a real explanation. Not a textbook definition. The lived version.

The first shock happens before you even unpack.

When I moved to Mexico I quickly understood something I had never had to think about in the United States. I was American.

Not Black. Not a woman. Not from the Midwest. American.

In the US everything is fragmented. Race, class, neighborhood, politics. The country spends enormous energy separating people into categories and keeping them there. But the moment you step outside of it you become one thing in the eyes of the world. American. That is your identity now. That is how people see you, respond to you, and relate to you.

For people who have never left the country that identity shift alone is disorienting. Everything you used to define yourself by gets replaced by a single nationality. And that is just day one.

What culture shock actually is.

Culture shock is not just feeling uncomfortable in a new place. It is the full psychological and physiological response to having everything familiar removed at once.

Your cues are gone. The signs, the sounds, the social rhythms, the unspoken rules of how people interact. All of it is different. And your nervous system, which has spent decades learning one set of signals, has to start over.

It typically moves through stages. First there is the honeymoon phase where everything feels exciting and new. Then comes the frustration when the novelty wears off and the difficulty sets in. Then adjustment as you start to build new patterns. And eventually adaptation where the new place begins to feel like home.

But here is what the stages do not capture. Culture shock is not a schedule. It is not linear. You can be four years in and still get hit by it on a random Tuesday when something familiar is out of reach and you cannot explain why you suddenly feel so far from everything you know.

The resilience most Americans do not know they have.

Here is something I want to say directly to every person who thinks they cannot handle living abroad.

If you survived New York City. If you grew up in the hood. If you made it through the trailer park, through corporate America, through poverty, through any version of hard American life, you already have the skillset to live abroad.

The adaptability you built surviving in America is exactly what you need in a new country. You know how to read a room. You know how to stretch a dollar. You know how to navigate systems that were not built for you. You know how to build community from scratch.

That is not nothing. That is everything.

The conditions will be different. The language may be different. You may not find your comfort foods or your specific brand of anything. There are always trade-offs. But the core capacity to figure it out and keep moving is already in you. You built it the hard way.

Why some people never leave and why that is worth understanding.

Some people have lived on the same block, in the same city, in the same state for thirty, forty, fifty, sixty years. Their nervous system has been calibrated to that specific environment for their entire life. The familiar is not just comfortable. It is literally what safety feels like in their body.

When you ask that person to imagine leaving, you are not just asking them to book a flight. You are asking their entire nervous system to consider the unknown as safe. And for many people that neurological leap is genuinely difficult. Not because they are weak. Because they are deeply rooted.

Understanding that helps expats be more compassionate with the people in their lives who cannot come with them and cannot quite understand why you left.

Culture shock can enable you or disable you.

This is the part that matters most.

Culture shock is not the enemy. It is information. It is your system telling you that something significant is shifting. The question is whether you let it stop you or whether you let it teach you.

When you treat culture shock as a disability it becomes one. You contract. You isolate. You spend all your energy trying to recreate the familiar instead of engaging with what is actually around you.

When you treat it as a doorway it becomes one. The discomfort becomes curiosity. The unfamiliar becomes interesting. The challenge becomes the point.

You do not have to enjoy every moment of it. But your relationship to the discomfort will determine everything about your experience abroad.

Culture shock is real. It is not a character flaw. It is not a sign you made the wrong decision. It is the price of admission for a bigger life.

And most people who paid it will tell you it was worth every uncomfortable moment.

Listen to the full conversation on the Tia Niki Travel Vault Podcast.

Listen to the Podcast

Subscribe now

Share

I have been in a relationship with astrology since I could read.

It was one of the first subjects that made me feel like the universe was speaking directly to me. Not at me. Not around me. To me. And over the decades that relationship has deepened from horoscopes to natal charts to understanding the architecture of who I am through the lens of the planets.

So when I decided to move abroad it made complete sense to consult the chart.

What I was looking for specifically is called astrocartography. It is the practice of mapping your natal chart onto the geography of the world to reveal which locations activate which planetary energies for you. Every place on earth sits on a different line for every person. And depending on which planet rules that line the experience of living there will feel completely different.

Some places put you in your power. Some drain you quietly until you cannot remember who you were before you arrived. Some activate love. Some activate career. Some activate spiritual awakening. The chart knows. It always knew.

When I ran my astrocartography chart for Mexico what came up surprised me.

My MC line. The midheaven. The line of career, public life, reputation, and ambition. I was perplexed at first because I thought you need a work permit to work in Mexico. I was moving there to live, not necessarily to build an empire.

Four years later I have multiple businesses and multiple brands. I have spent the majority of my time in Merida working. Building. Producing. Consulting. Creating. So consumed by the hustle that I missed the cultural isolation creeping in around me because I was too busy building to notice. The chart did not lie. It told me exactly what Mexico would activate and it was right about every single thing.

Now I am preparing to move again. And of course I ran the chart for the Dominican Republic.

What came up this time stopped me in my tracks.

Venus and Jupiter.

Venus is love, beauty, pleasure, connection, harmony and the deep desire to be seen and received as you are. Jupiter is expansion, abundance, optimism, growth and the opening of doors you did not even know existed. Together on the same line they are one of the most auspicious combinations in astrocartography.

And it lines up perfectly with everything I have been writing about lately. The cultural isolation. The longing for resonance. The soul looking for its reflection. The part of me that has been building for four years and is now ready to receive.

The chart knew before I did.

I also used astrocartography professionally for a client who wanted to know the best places to live according to her natal chart. We mapped it out together and the locations that came up resonated deeply with her. She had a map. She had direction. She had language for the pull she had already been feeling toward certain places in the world.

That is the gift of this tool.

You do not have to be a professional astrologer to use it. You need your birth date, birth time, and birth location. You enter that information into a free astrocartography site and your personalized world map generates with your planetary lines overlaid on it. Then you look for where you are, where you want to go, and what energy that location is activating for you.

Jupiter lines bring expansion and opportunity. Venus lines bring connection and beauty. Saturn lines bring discipline and hard lessons. Pluto lines bring transformation so deep it can feel like destruction before it feels like rebirth. Sun lines bring visibility and vitality. Moon lines bring emotional depth and a feeling of home.

You are not looking for the perfect line. You are looking for the right line for the right season of your life. Sometimes you need Saturn. Sometimes you need Venus. The chart helps you choose consciously instead of wandering and wondering why a place feels the way it does.

For expats this tool is everything. Before you choose a country. Before you sign a lease. Before you book the flight. Pull your chart. See what the location is activating. Go in with your eyes open and your intentions aligned.

The universe has already mapped it out for you. Listen to the full conversation on the Tia Niki Travel Vault Podcast.

Click here to Listen

Thank you for your support, I am committed to providing commentary Only found on Tia Niki Travel Vault! Travel content for Anyone, Anytime, Going Anywhere!

Subscribe now

Share

Between 2018 and 2022 I was rebuilding.

Not decorating. Not upgrading. Rebuilding from the foundation up after one of the most traumatic periods of my life. I had survived homelessness. My mother and I had survived it together. And when the immediate crisis was over the body kept the score and mine was not done with me yet.

I was diagnosed with PTSD.

And I made a decision that I think saved my quality of life. I decided to seek therapy. I know that sounds simple. It is not simple. Most people do not do it. Not because they do not need it but because of access, funds, stigma, and for a lot of us a deep cultural conditioning that says you handle your pain privately or not at all. Men especially fall into that trap. Black people especially. But I am telling you that asking for help was one of the most sovereign things I have ever done for myself.

I was intentional about who I chose. I wanted a Black woman therapist. Someone I could look at and feel safe with from the first session. Someone whose lived experience gave her a frame of reference for mine. I found her. And that comfort, that immediate sense of being seen, made everything that followed possible.

We talked about the trauma. We unpacked it. And at a certain point she offered me something I had not considered.

Medical cannabis.

I was not interested in pharmaceuticals. I had watched what prescription medication did to people around me. The side effects, the dependency, the numbness. That was not the kind of regulation I was looking for. So when she presented cannabis therapy as a legitimate clinical option I listened.

I got my medical marijuana card. I went through the process properly, like a doctor’s office, because that is exactly what it was. And I started learning. Not just using but learning. I learned about trichomes and what they do. How different strains interact with different systems in the body. How one type of cannabis might address physical pain in your joints while another works directly on the nervous system to reduce anxiety and regulate neurological responses to triggers. This is real science. This is real medicine. And it helped me in ways I did not expect.

I think about veterans. I think about the people sitting in their pain right now who have been told their only options come in pill form. Cannabis therapy is worthy of serious consideration and I wish more people had access to the conversation I had in that room.

Now here is where it gets complicated for the expat.

I was healing. I was regulated. I was rebuilding my life with a tool that worked for me. And then I started planning my move to Mexico. And the question I had to ask myself was one that a lot of Americans living abroad or thinking about living abroad have to ask.

What happens to my medicine when I leave?

Not every country treats cannabis the same way. Not every country where Americans are choosing to relocate has the same access, the same laws, the same culture around it. And for those of us who use it therapeutically, not recreationally but as a genuine part of managing our nervous systems, this is not a small question. This is a quality of life question.

I researched it. And I want to talk about what I found. Because if you are an expat or a future expat and cannabis is part of how you take care of yourself, you deserve to know your options before you book that flight.

Listen to the full conversation on the Tia Niki Travel Vault Podcast:

~Niki

Leave a comment

Share

Subscribe now

I have had clients who did not move to Mexico because of Spanish.

Not because of the cost of living. Not because of the culture. Not because of safety concerns or logistics. Because of Spanish. The language stopped them before they ever booked a flight and that has stayed with me.

America did that to them.

We are not taught languages in the United States the way the rest of the world teaches them. In most countries English is mandatory. It is woven into the curriculum from childhood. Not elective. Not optional. Required. Because the world understands that language is access.

In America we get English only. English first. English as if it is the only language that matters on a planet where it absolutely is not. And what that creates is a generation of people who are terrified to open their mouths in another country because they were never given the tools and somehow made to feel like that was normal.

It is a deficit. A real one.

Spanish alone has more letters than the English alphabet. More words to describe things. More nuance in its nouns and verbs. And then there is the layering of dialects. Mexican Spanish sounds different from Cuban Spanish. Puerto Rican Spanish has its own rhythm. The Dominican Republic, Colombia, Argentina, each one carrying the language differently, shaped by history, geography, and culture. The same word can mean something completely different depending on which country you are standing in.

I am thinking about all of this now because I am preparing to eventually leave Merida. And as I look toward other Latin American countries I am encountering those differences firsthand. It is humbling. It is also fascinating.

Language is not a wall. It never was. It is a doorway. And the only thing standing between you and everything on the other side is the willingness to try.

Go deeper. I asked the hosts over on the Tia Niki Travel Vault YouTube channel to break this down in detail. The dialects, the differences, the similarities, and how to stop letting language be the reason you don’t go.

Visit My YT Channel

Subscribe now

Share

It all started with me trying to find something to watch on Netflix.

And I couldn’t find a damn thing.

It’s almost impossible to find anything that stimulates the mind. It’s all the same shit. Violence, slave stories, remakes, same storylines, Tyler Perry movies which are dreadful to watch. And I often wondered, when he opened his studios, was it only for him? I don’t see any producing, writing, or scripting for other artists. I did find it questionable when he name studio lots after stars, no judgement, just observation. How about the Sandra Bland lot? The Emmett Till stage? The group of brothers wrongly accused in the Central Park case (Central Park 5)? There are so many people and movements that could’ve been recognized and left in legacy, but he did the fucking Will Smith stage, mmmk.

The one thing I understand about celebrities much like the police, for contrast is that they live in their own world, separate from the reality that most people live. Touchless, disassociated, and cognitive dissonance is their frequency, involuntary I might add, just my opinion. They seem to need attention all the time while the rest of the world is doing real work. Not entertaining. Real work.

So consequently, I have a disdain for celebrities and moreover, celebrity worship. And I’ve noticed that this behavior is centered in United States. Money, movies, and music is all there is in the States. I love music. It’s diverse. Money is a necessity. But the movies suck!

Hours scrolling Netflix for movies that are “premieres” that came out 25 years ago. REALLY?

I have truly grown to like and appreciate foreign films. WAAAY Less violence. Deeper, more entrenched story plots. Intelligent and made well. It’s not about stardom it’s about producing a great cinematic experience.

I’ve become so detached the TV is background noise or OFF. As an Expat, America is becoming more and more disinteresting to me. Shows that had my devotion are memories in the wind. I don’t find pleasure in the violence or the language. I have never liked the words bitch or ho now they’re totally intolerable. I can’t listen. It’s not in my everyday life anymore and I have a blossomed respect for Women, especially those of us alone abroad and building new lives.

Mexicans don’t talk to or about each other like that in their culture at least not where I am. Their vocabulary is broader and more definitive than English. They even have more letters in their alphabet. They speak with mutual respect, I never hear arguing, again where I am in Mexico, violent acts of rage, acting out in public i.e. throwing things or storming off. Es muy tranquilo.

So, my intake has changed drastically. Moving further and further away from what I’ve known my whole life. It’s quite fascinating, actually. Now I just wonder where to find a good show. Most times I watch The Office. Prime TV in my eyes. It was a great time in my life when it was on. That show takes me to a happy place. Old movies, old sitcoms and I’m like, damn, is this all there is? Who knows.

But I’ll tell you what no more awards shows. I’m not watching stars give stars awards. Plus, I am so much older now, I barely know the celebrities lol. But thing is there’s no interaction with the people who watched and supported. Isn’t that supposed to be a time to celebrate by giving something back from the person, not just the movie? Everyone is getting rich off the people, yet very few give back. It’s quite jaw-dropping if you ask me.

America’s vibe leaves a bad taste in my mouth as a whole. From governmental organizations to Skid Row to the patriarchal system that holds it all up. It’s a bunch of bullshit. And the rest of the world looks, laughs, and beware’s.

I’ve had the chance to look at other cultures, and they seem more aligned with where I am, Mexico. People care for one another. They speak to each other with kindness. They are not mean or brash. They are patient, observant, and gentle. Mexicans look out for me!! They know the lay of the land. I have learned to always connect with locals wherever you are on the map.

I think what bothers me most is that I can’t take the US out of my DNA. It holds a lot of traumas, especially for Black Americans. Most folks are desensitized and drained. I understand and you can’t see it when you’re in it. But boy oh boy, the outside view is heavy. I wish I could put it down. But how can you, when it’s part of your roots? Interwoven into the fabric of your soul?

Black American depression is real inside and outside the Matrix. And you can’t drink it away, smoke it away, or fuck it away even though many have tried. I am learning to LIVE each day above it the noise, not beside it or behind it and not allowing it to stop me from evolving and loving myself more each day. Life teaches, we learn.

~Niki

Share

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

What the Iran war, Mexico's cartel chaos, and 23,000 cancelled flights are trying to tell you about building a life that one country's geopolitical delusions can't destroy.

Let's Start With What's Actually Happening

On February 28, 2026, the US and Israel launched coordinated strikes on Iran. Iran hit back hard. And the Middle East, which had quietly become one of the most critical flight corridors on the planet, collapsed overnight.

Dubai. Doha. Abu Dhabi. Three of the world's busiest airports gone. Airspace closed across Bahrain, Iraq, Israel, Kuwait, Qatar, Syria, the UAE, and Iran itself. Over 23,000 flights cancelled. Tens of thousands of people stranded. Some paying $100,000 to $200,000 for private charter jets just to get out.

Not hypothetically. Right now. This week.

And because Russian and Ukrainian airspace has been closed since 2022, airlines had already rerouted through the Middle East to connect Europe and Asia. So now that corridor is gone too. Aviation experts are calling this unprecedented. One called it "an aviation quagmire." I'd call it a preview.

And Mexico Wasn't Sitting This One Out

Right before the Iran war exploded, Mexico had its own moment. The Mexican military killed El Mencho the leader of the CJNG cartel in late February. And just like that, flights to Puerto Vallarta were halted. Cruise lines rerouted ships. Airports went quiet.

Two completely separate events. Same result. People couldn't get where they were going.

Now I live in Mexico. I chose this. Eyes wide open. And I'm not writing this to scare you away from Mexico or anywhere else. I'm writing this because what we're watching in real time is a masterclass in why you cannot anchor your entire life your ability to move, to leave, to arrive to any single country's decisions.

This Is the Part Nobody Tells You Before You Move Abroad

Expat life isn't just a vibe. It's a strategy. And strategy requires you to think in scenarios, not fantasies.

Here's what I know after living in Mérida:

Your passport matters more than you think. The US State Department told Americans in over a dozen Middle Eastern countries to "DEPART NOW" with airspace closed. That's not an evacuation plan. That's a suggestion with no exit. Know your options before you need them.

Travel insurance has limits. Most standard policies exclude military action, acts of war, and government airspace closures. The people stranded right now? Many are discovering their coverage means nothing. Read your policy like your life depends on it because sometimes it does.

Routing flexibility is a superpower. Know more than one way in and out of where you live. I know how I'd get home to the US if I had to. Do you know how you'd move if you had to?

Build financial and logistical independence. If your entire financial life is tied to one account, one currency, one country's systems you're one executive order away from being stranded. Diversify. Not just your investments. Your life.

But Here's the Bigger Truth

The people most devastated right now are the ones who had no plan B. Who assumed stability. Who trusted that geopolitics would hold still long enough for their vacation, their business trip, their move.

Expatriating isn't about running away. It's about running toward something intentionally. With eyes open. With contingencies. With the understanding that no country, including the one you're fleeing, is guaranteed to behave.

The world is not stable. It has never been stable. What you can control is how prepared you are when the instability shows up.

I left the US because I saw this coming. Not the Iran war specifically. But this the cascading, chaotic, "nobody warned us" energy that happens when empires overreach and ordinary people pay the price in missed flights and missed lives.

What You Should Be Doing Right Now

If you're already abroad: Review your exit options. Check your insurance. Know your embassy contacts.

If you're still in the US thinking about leaving: Stop waiting for a perfect moment. There isn't one. There never was.

And if you're somewhere in the middle watching the news, watching the flights get cancelled, watching the world get more chaotic let this be the thing that finally makes you get serious about building a life that doesn't depend on any one country's sanity.

When the flights stop and the borders close, whose plan are you living by? Yours? Or a country’s?

The sky is falling.

Build something that doesn't need the sky.

~ NikitheOracle