Leaving Places and Keeping People

It’s the last day of July, and this marks my fourth and final blog post for the month. The last time I checked, I had 53 days left before I leave this place—but who's counting? (Me. I’m counting. Obsessively.)

This whole situation reminds me of something my mum always says: “Time waits for no one.” And wow, she was not kidding. I think it’ll take me my entire life to master the art of meeting new people and then gracefully letting them go. Spoiler alert: I’m failing the "graceful" part. I will probably never get used to this transition. Ever. I’ve accepted that.

Counting down the days is such a weird emotional cocktail. One part excitement—Yay, new adventure!—and one part existential dread—Oh no, I have to say goodbye to everything and everyone I love here. I mean, the people! The atmosphere! The lifestyle! Even the random gecko that occasionally invades my room has grown on me.

Maybe that’s why so many people choose stable jobs and stay in one place forever—because change is terrifying. It’s like, “Hey, here’s a new life! But wait, it comes with zero instructions, no refund policy, and you’ll need to re-download all your emotional coping mechanisms.” Great.

But here’s the plot twist: what if the new life is actually better? What if the risk pays off and your soul gets to do a little happy dance? That’s the gamble, right? You roll the dice, pray to the universe, and hope the Wi-Fi is stable wherever you land.

One day, I want to sit my grandchildren down and say, “Kids, your grandma quit her perfectly stable engineering job in her twenties and ran off to live on an island as a divemaster trainee.” And then I’ll casually drop, “And after that, I flew to New Zealand, met amazing people, and collected enough stories to fill five seasons of a Netflix series.”

If I don’t take the risk, the only story I’ll have is: “I worked a stable engineering job for 40 years and got very good at Excel spreadsheets.” And while Excel is powerful, I’d rather not have it as the main character of my autobiography.

I want to look back and see the faces of people I met, the conversations we had, the choices they made, and the ways they shaped my journey. That, to me, is the meaning of life—not reaching some neat conclusion, but discovering who we are while getting hilariously lost along the way.

So, my journey continues. With some fear, a lot of hope, and probably too many snacks. Thanks, July. You’ve been chaotic, beautiful, and absolutely unforgettable.