Let’s talk about the story we’re sold about living abroad: You leave. You stay. You morph into a cosmopolitan demigod who sips espresso in Parisian cafés and never looks back. Going home? That’s for people who “couldn’t hack it.” The unspoken rule: real adventurers don’t retreat.

So when I announced I was leaving Ireland after two gloriously chaotic years—not because I hated it, but because paperwork demanded a tactical retreat—the reactions were… illuminating.

“You’re going back? But… why?”

“Just marry an Irish lad! Problem solved!”

“I’d rather eat nothing but potatoes for life than return to my home country.”

Cool. Thanks for the guilt garnished with existential dread.

The practicality pivot: when bureaucracy plays villain

Here’s the tea: My EU residency papers were stuck in bureaucratic purgatory. Staying meant paying €15k for another student visa, hustling 20-hour work weeks, and praying Irish rain would wash away my anxiety. Leaving meant waiting comfortably in Brazil, where mangoes cost €1 and my mom’s hugs are still tax-free.

The math was simple:

  • Option A: bleed savings dry in Dublin while stress-eating €7 Tesco meal deals.

  • Option B: bask in Brazilian sun, save money, and not develop an ulcer.

I chose Option B. And immediately felt like I’d flunked Expat 101.

The clean slate hangover

Let’s be real: Living abroad is addictive. There’s magic in being anonymous—nobody knows your embarrassing childhood nickname or that you once cried over a burnt casserole. Ireland was my blank canvas: I painted it with Galway weekends, Belfast road trips, and friendships forged over pints that tasted like liquid courage.

Eight months? That was the plan. But the canvas got so colorful. Two years later, I’d built a life that included:

  • A Dublin pub where the bartender knew my “usual” (Guinness, no small talk before noon).

  • A hiking crew that didn’t judge my questionable rain gear.

  • The ability to pronounce "Sláinte" without sounding like I was choking.

Letting go felt like peeling off a second skin.

The “F” word (no, not that one)

Failure. That sneaky little demon that whispers, “You’re giving up. Everyone else is thriving. Should’ve tried harder.”

But here’s the plot twist: I didn’t fail. I made a spreadsheet (okay, three). I weighed pros and cons. I chose sanity over slog. Yet still, that phantom shame lingered. Why?

Because we’ve romanticized suffering as a badge of honor. Sleeping on a friend’s couch for 6 months? Grit. Working three under-the-table jobs? Hustle. Choosing comfort? Weakness.

Newsflash: Struggle porn is overrated.

The cult of “never going back”

The real mindfuck? Other immigrants. Since landing in Dublin, I’d heard variations of:

“Brazil? Gorgeous… to visit.”

“I’d rather be broke here than comfortable there.”

“Returning home is admitting defeat.”

It’s a toxic liturgy—as if loving your homeland cancels out your global cred. But guess what? You can adore your culture and critique its flaws. You can miss your grandma’s cooking and crave Irish stew. Humans contain multitudes (and multiple cravings).

Reframing the “step back”

Here’s what no one tells you: Sometimes a step back is a running start.

  • Financially: saving €1,500/month in Brazil > scraping by in Dublin.

  • Mentally: therapy in Portuguese > crying into a Dublin downpour.

  • Strategically: waiting stress-free > visa limbo.

This isn’t retreat—it’s recalibration. Like pausing a Netflix show because you need snacks. The story isn’t over; you’re just fueling up.

The things I’ll carry forward

Ireland didn’t vanish when my plane took off. I packed:

  1. That Irish resilience: if I can smile through horizontal rain, I can handle São Paulo traffic.

  2. The art of craic: Brazilians invented joy, but the Irish taught me to find it in a damp pub on a Tuesday.

  3. My EU residency quest: this isn’t goodbye—it’s “see you after I conquer paperwork.”

Why “home” isn’t a dirty word

Moving countries isn’t a linear game of Chutes and Ladders. It’s a pinball machine.

  • Sometimes you slam into flashy lights (Dublin’s tech boom!).

  • Sometimes you ricochet into a dark corner (visa rejections).

  • And sometimes, the machine spits you out exactly where you started—but with new reflexes.

Going home isn’t losing. It’s pressing reset with upgraded software.

A letter to my future self (and anyone else “returning”)

Dear you,

If you’re reading this from your childhood bedroom, eating cereal straight from the box:

  1. You didn’t fail. You prioritized peace. That’s adulting.

  2. Ignore the martyrs. Suffering abroad doesn’t make you noble; it makes you tired.

  3. This isn’t the end. It’s a comma. Or a semicolon; your story isn’t finished.

Now go call that Irish friend. Tell them you miss the rain (a lie, but a sweet one). Then bite into that cheap, perfect mango and whisper, “Sláinte, you beautiful backup plan.”

Word count: 1,000. Your expat card isn’t revoked; it’s just… reloading.

P.S.: this article was drafted from my mom’s couch in Brazil. The Wi-Fi’s free, the coffee’s strong, and the guilt? Slowly evaporating.