Working in Vietnam changed her life. She escaped there at the age of 40 from loneliness

I didn't have a family of my own, but I had freedom, knowledge of English, and nothing to lose. I packed up my life and accepted a one-year contract to teach English in Vietnam.

I flew one way to a city I had never heard of before, in a country I had never visited.

The move was disorienting

The humidity, population density and traffic in Vietnam overwhelmed me. In Haiphong—the industrial port city in northern Vietnam that I now call home—foreigners are rare, and few residents speak English. Some of the older people weren't friendly to strangers, so I had some tense encounters with taxi drivers and vendors.

But after three months, the adventure hooked me. From a person living and working alone, I became a roommate, I started socializing intensively again like in college, I was learning a new language and establishing bonds with children and teenagers.

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit halfway through my contract, some of my younger colleagues left — many under pressure from their parents. I stayed.

When the borders reopened, I traveled the length and breadth of the country, made lasting friendships, taught hundreds of students, and felt part of the local community. I got used to the roughness of the city and began to understand its inhabitants better. It was becoming increasingly difficult to even think about leaving. It still is.

During this time, I was rarely alone. I am surrounded by younger expat friends, most of them single. I started a book club and a cooking club. There are moments of laughter across language barriers with strangers every day.

Being a middle-aged woman without a husband or children is unusual here, but being “Teacher Dee” helped me put aside some of the sadness of being childless — not by choice, but by circumstance.

I went from mourning the lack of children to being surrounded by them. Neighborhood children shout “Helloooo!” as they pass me on their bikes. In stores, parents encourage their children to practice English with me. I get happy “high fives” from energetic students.

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Homesickness is inevitable

In the beginning, I often had internal monologues directed at my twin, telling her in my head about her new life. Today I keep in touch with other South African friends who feel similarly divided. We even support our rugby team – something I rarely did when I lived in the country.

Vietnam was good to me. I have gained teaching experience, become more sociable and feel less financial stress.

Now, after almost seven years of what was supposed to be a “break” from life in my homeland, I'm wondering what's next. Friends and family often ask, “When will you come back?” This question becomes more and more pressing as I approach fifty.

Home is no longer one place, but two. I'm paying for a warehouse in Cape Town while accumulating more stuff in Haiphong than two suitcases can hold. I live in a constant state of longing for one place while living in another.

I miss the nature, familiarity and diversity of Cape Town, but I know I would mourn the freedom, security and financial stability I have found here. People say, “It will always be there, waiting.” I'm more worried about: “Has this door closed already?”

He panics at the thought of losing everything that is uniquely Vietnamese – a place pulsating with energy and possibility. Life pours out of the open doors of houses, into alleys, onto stools by the sidewalks, into food markets and cafes, and into the backs of agile scooters. Most of all, I would miss people – especially children.

Stay or go?

I see myself back in Cape Town someday, but not yet. For now, I'm somewhere in between – juggling two career paths, with my head and heart stretched between continents.

After a long time abroad, returning can seem as intimidating as leaving. My belongings are divided between two houses – and so am I.

The above text is a translation from American edition of Business Insider