In 2014, I decided to emigrate to another country. A huge step for me, a big change in my life. I’d be leaving friends and family behind. Sure, they would come and visit, but we’d see each other a lot less frequently than we did before. I got a very different job, moved to a very different place where I’d be an immigrant, an immigrant who doesn’t even speak the langauge. Still, I was excited.

My parents cried, they said they will miss me a lot. But they were also very happy for me, and super supportive. They helped me pack and move. They helped me figure out all the essentials. They were proud, and did everything they could to make my new adventure a success.

It was risky, in some sense. I had no clue if I would ever move back, or move to yet another country. I had only once been in that country before, just for a single day. And if I ever wanted to move back, that would be tricky: I’d have to quit my job there, and without a job it’s hard to rent a place or get a mortgage back home. My parents said we’ll figure something out if it would come to that, supportive as always.

The paperwork in my home country was easy: I went to the city hall, said “Hey, I’m leaving the country!” To which they replied: “Sure thing, we’ll update your record. Have fun wherever you go!”. And that was it. It felt like freedom, to be able to just do whatever I want, with nothing trying to stop me.