I Moved Abroad For A Better Life. Here’s What I Found Disturbing During My First Trip Back To America.
I had my first panic attack on I-85 in Atlanta.
Gripping the steering wheel of my huge SUV rental car, surrounded by six lanes of aggressive traffic near Midtown, my chest tightened as my brain struggled to process the sensory overload. Eight months in the Netherlands had rewired me in ways I hadn’t realized until that moment – when the sheer American-ness of it all came crashing down around me.
When I left America last spring for a safer home for my family and a better quality of life, I thought the hardest part would be adapting to life in the Netherlands. Learning Dutch, navigating the health care system, building a new community — these were the challenges I’d prepared for. Nobody warned me that coming back would be what left me in tears.
The traffic incident was just the first crack in the facade. Later that week, I drove 20 minutes to meet my oldest friend for lunch at a restaurant. As the waiter arrived with plates piled impossibly high with food, the conversation turned to her daughter’s college preparations.
“We just hired Riley’s college consultant,” my friend Jackie mentioned casually, sipping her drink. “Five thousand for the basic package, but you know how it is these days. Everyone needs an edge.”
Eight months ago, I would have been right there with her, strategizing about my own teenager’s future. Instead, I felt the room spinning.
In Utrecht, my son’s secondary school mentor had recently spent time explaining how important it was to help him find his passion, not just chase credentials. “What makes his eyes light up?” she’d asked. “That’s what we build on.” The contrast hit me like a physical blow.
“Are you OK?” Jackie asked, noticing my silence. “You look pale.”
How could I explain that everything — from the massive portions before us to the casual acceptance of paying thousands to game the education system — suddenly felt alien? That I’d spent the past eight months in a place where success wasn’t measured by the size of your house or the prestige of your child’s college acceptance letters?
The Netherlands showed us a different way almost immediately. Instead of hours trapped in traffic, my children now bike safely to school on protected lanes. Our weekends transformed from rushed errands and structured activities to trips to Innsbruck or Brussels. The Dutch principle of “niksen” ― the art of doing nothing ― replaced our American addiction to busyness. The biggest adjustment wasn’t learning to live with less ― it was realizing how much more we gained: time, connection, and a sense of safety I didn’t even know we were missing. Even simple things like grocery shopping became a daily pleasure rather than a weekly marathon, with fresh bread from the corner bakery and conversations with neighbors who never seemed too rushed to chat.
When I came back to the U.S., the differences weren’t just in the big things. They showed up in small, daily moments that highlighted how much I’d changed. The way my friend apologized for only having an hour for coffee because she had to get back to work. The constant checking of phones at dinner. The proud declarations of being “crazy busy” that I once viewed as normal but now heard as cries for help.
Living abroad hadn’t just changed my zip code — it had fundamentally altered how I viewed success, relationships and the American Dream itself. In the Netherlands, I’d learned that a society could prioritize collective well-being over individual achievement. That “enough” could be a destination, not just a pit stop on the way to “more.”
Sometimes loving your country means seeing it clearly, even when that vision breaks your heart.
A week later, I caught up with former colleagues who shared updates about their lives — the 60-hour workweeks, the missed family dinners, the pride in their ability to “push through” exhaustion. Before moving, I would have nodded along, maybe even one-upped their stories of dedication. Instead, I burst into tears.
“I can’t watch you live like this anymore,” I blurted out, mascara streaming down my face as they stared in shock. “This isn’t normal. None of this is normal.”
The silence that followed was deafening. How do you tell the people you love that what they see as inevitable trade-offs of “success” look like unnecessary suffering from the outside?
The contrasts became impossible to ignore. While my Dutch neighbors enjoyed six weeks of paid vacation without checking email once, my American friends bragged about working through their holidays. While my son’s Dutch classmates focused on discovering their interests, his friends back home sacrificed sleep for AP classes and travel sports. While I’d grown accustomed to long, leisurely dinners with friends who never checked their phones, my American gatherings felt like exercises in divided attention.
The hardest part wasn’t seeing these differences — it was realizing I could never unsee them. Every conversation became an exercise in biting my tongue. When friends complained about burnout, I had to stop myself from ranting about the 29-hour Dutch workweek. When they talked about their crushing student debt, I restrained myself from mentioning European university costs.
The guilt was overwhelming. Who was I to judge? I’d gotten out — left my family, my friends, my whole support system behind for a better life. I felt like a deserter, watching from a safe distance as everyone I loved continued to navigate a system designed to keep them overwhelmed and overworked.
Eight months abroad hasn’t just changed where I live — it has changed who I am. And while I can’t go back to seeing the world the way I used to, I’m not sure I want to. Sometimes loving your country means seeing it clearly, even when that vision breaks your heart.
But perhaps there’s power in this new perspective. Each time I share my experience with others contemplating a similar journey, I see the same recognition in their eyes — that quiet knowing that something isn’t quite right with the way we’re living. They too feel the weight of a system that prioritizes productivity over peace, achievement over authenticity.
What I’ve learned is that feeling like a stranger in your own country doesn’t have to be purely painful — it can be illuminating. It shows us that another way of life isn’t just possible, it’s already happening elsewhere. My culture shock wasn’t just discomfort; it was my mind and body recognizing that we have choices. We can choose to build our lives differently. We can choose to value time over money, connection over career, being over doing.
For those feeling trapped in the endless cycle of American hustle culture, know this: Your exhaustion is not a personal failing. That nagging feeling that there must be more to life than this? Listen to it. Whether or not moving abroad is your path, understanding that alternatives exist is the first step toward creating change — whether in your own life or in your community.
I may never feel completely at home in America again. But maybe that’s OK. Maybe we need more people willing to step outside the fishbowl and then return with fresh eyes. Maybe we need more voices saying, “This isn’t normal, and it doesn’t have to be this way.”
As I sit in a café on a Tuesday morning working before I go to lunch with my son, I carry these revelations not just as stones in my pocket, but as seeds of possibility. Because while culture shock can break us open, what matters most is what we choose to grow in the cracks.
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