stamped and changed: coming home after being abroad
lessons in living series (life edition): what happens when you come back home? the 5 stages of grieving my old self.
I am mourning the loss of my old self as I discover the one I am becoming in this new place. I hear more of my thoughts the further I travel away from home. Yet, somehow, the struggle of reading the signs in my new city, the dependence on my abilities and the reinvention of my support system was part of the becoming.
Who Am I?
Born and raised in the island city of Singapore, I spent my undergraduate years in Vancouver and Berlin—two vastly different cities that shaped me in ways home never could. I moved abroad twice, returned home twice, and each time, I found myself shedding and reclaiming parts of who I am. How do these versions of me coexist?
In Vancouver, I was Beach Barbie 🏖️ — sea salt in my hair, Crocs crunching along sandy roads. The air felt lighter, as did the conversations. My firsts there: learning the art of small talk: smiling at strangers, asking how their day was, and meaning it.
In Berlin, I morphed into a Späti Barbie 🍺 — beer in hand, black loafers on concrete streets. I leaned into the city’s grit and multicultural chaos. My firsts there: solo dates, and clubbing pop anthems moving me more than techno ever could.
When I moved back home at the end of each season, I realised I missed the versions of myself that I created, nurtured and learnt in these places. I struggled with bringing myself home.
Culture Chameleon
In a new city, my identity felt like something I could curate—an unpolished slate open to nuance. Yet no matter how fluid I imagined it, my identity inevitably traced back to culture and heritage.
As a Chinese Singaporean, I was met with questions and assumptions—more than once, someone asked, “Are you a Crazy Rich Asian?” A comment that made me laugh, cringe, and gently correct. (I was two of those adjectives, to be fair.) There was pride in challenging stereotypes, but also a quiet exhaustion in having to explain who I was, again and again.
I remember travelling over an hour across Berlin to reach “Ma-Makan,” a Singaporean-Malaysian eatery tucked away in a quiet corner on Lausitzer Platz. Red plastic chairs, metal tables, the scent of sambal in the air—it looked like a coffeeshop back home. The space was adorned like my grandmother’s kitchen, even the pots and bowls were themed to reflect her kitchen, yet cluttered in the most comforting way. Chopsticks in hand, a plate of nasi lemak in front of me, I felt it clearly: I was still home, even here. And with that came a quiet, renewed pride in where I came from.
Like the true Asian I was, I invited friends over for dinner —not just to eat, but to offer them a piece of home, served with stories and second helpings. In the furthest of places, I chose to share the parts of my culture that resonated most—the joy of hosting, the intimacy of food, the value of connection through giving.
Quiet Confidence
If you asked me where I learnt German from, I would say, not Duolingo but Edeka (German supermarket), while trying to find the Hähnchen section. If you asked me what I used the most German for, I would say it would be to order coffee and decipher whether "Milch" meant dairy or soy, all while holding up the queue and trying not to panic. And if you asked me how my German was tested, I would say it was standing at the post office, trying to send international mail without the safety net of Google Translate.
Every small act, from reading incomprehensible supermarket signs to clinging onto train announcements like lifelines, felt like a mental workout. I had never paid so much attention to my environment — every word, every symbol, every tone. And yet, through all the overwhelm, I found a quiet steadiness. I didn’t have all the answers, but I kept figuring things out. Somewhere between the uncertainty and the small wins, I learned to trust myself — not because I was certain of everything, but because I kept going anyway.
I had a quiet confidence that I had to rely on myself (and others occasionally) if I wanted to survive. And I get to keep her, even when I move back home - to the familarity of my surroundings.
Coming Home in 5..4..3..2..1
Coming back home wasn’t a seamless return—it was a slow reckoning. Talking about my new found experience with old friends, helped me to reminisince, depicting tales of late night adventures, laughter with new friends and the days I cried because I missed home. Yet even as I recounted those moments, I realized I wasn’t just remembering them—I was still experiencing the ache of their absence. I missed the people I had shared those chapters with, even more than the places themselves.
Nostalgia,
How do I begin to explain the warmth of a new friend’s hug on winter nights, after a few drinks and tender goodbyes, followed by “get home safe” texts? How do I describe the feeling of standing in a room full of strangers at a party I was invited to, knowing neither the language nor the people, yet somehow still feeling alive? And how can I explain the flood of emotion as I waved goodbye to my new friends at the airport, not knowing when—or if—I’d ever see them again?
I never seemed to be able to capture my experienced feelings, to old friends back home. The memory of my friends lives on because of me.
Denial,
In the first few weeks of being back, I floated through the days in a haze, as if I were only visiting home, not returning. I booked a trip out to Korea to visit a friend, under the pretence of “Live Laugh Loving”, when in actuality I was in denial of returning home.
I kept telling myself I was just between flights—that my real life was still waiting for me elsewhere. I replayed voice notes from my friends abroad, left my suitcase half-unpacked, and clung to the idea that this was temporary. I smiled and told stories as if I had emotionally processed them, but I hadn't. Denial made everything feel distant, like I was narrating someone else's memories. It was easier to pretend that nothing had changed than to confront how much I had.
Anger,
But denial can’t hold forever—it cracks. And when it did, anger crept in quietly, then all at once. My friends noticed it first…I was angry at how easily life at home had moved on without me, as if I were left behind in the continuity of time. I was angry that I couldn’t slot myself back into routines that once felt effortless. I blamed myself for leaving, then blamed others for not understanding what I had come back from. Even the smallest things set me off: the silence of familiar streets, the lack of spontaneity, the questions that felt too shallow—“How was it?”
How could I begin to answer that? I wasn’t just mourning a place—I was mourning the version of me that had grown somewhere far away, and had no space to land back home. I didn’t want to feel this displaced. I didn’t want to feel this foreign in my own life.
Bargaining,
Then came bargaining, subtle and inward. I tried to negotiate my way back into comfort. Maybe if I book a trip back, this won’t have to feel like an ending. Maybe if I continue my education or find a job there, I could go back. I threw myself into recreating pieces of the life I left behind—walks that felt similar, routines that mimicked the new ones, messages sent across time zones to keep the connections alive. I was trying to stitch together a version of home that could hold everything: who I had been, who I had become, and the life I once lived elsewhere. But the more I tried to replicate the past, the more I felt its absence.
Sadness,
Eventually, the weight settled in. The ache grew quieter, but heavier. That’s the thing with grief—it doesn’t always scream; sometimes it just lingers. I found myself withdrawing, caught between two worlds that didn’t fully claim me. I missed my friends but didn’t always have the words or energy to reach out. Viewing their Instagram stories, with familiar places but new memories without me.
I missed who I had been, the openness I had found in new places. Some days, I wondered if it was a fever dream after all. Coming home felt like living in parentheses—pausing the momentum of a life that had once felt wide and full. The loneliness didn’t come from being alone; it came from feeling unknown.
Then, Acceptance.
But slowly, I softened. Acceptance didn’t arrive with fanfare—it showed up in the small things. Choosing the rituals I wanted to keep, the new and learnt world views I could share with others and the memories I could document down.
I began to see that I didn’t have to choose between versions of myself. The change wasn’t something to fix, but to fold into the rhythm of my life. I made peace with the silence, allowed myself to miss people without spiralling, and stopped needing everything to “make sense.” Just sitting with my feelings. I found new rituals, ones that honoured both where I came from and where I’d been. And maybe that’s what coming home is: not a return to what was, but an invitation to live with everything you’ve gathered—and to let it change you.
And in doing so, I realised that coming home isn’t about returning to what was—but making peace with what is, and who I’ve become.