Everyone used to say, "I'll work abroad for a few years, save up, and then head home." But as time went on, nobody talked about going back. The Southeast Asian sun is strong, and white clothes hold up well, looking clean and fresh. Every day, there are rumors of crackdowns, and we just say, "The rougher the seas, the pricier the fish."
This time, though, things feel different. People are actually leaving—not heading home, but searching for the next place to settle. I've wandered through Cambodia, Malaysia, Laos, and the Philippines—not as a tourist, but looking for a way to make a living.
Someone suggested visiting Angkor Wat. I said, "Sure." Folks often sing about Angkor Wat in KTVs, but I'd never been. The place was packed with tourists, and I followed along, like tagging behind people who knew where they were going. At the entrance, I realized it was different from tourist spots back home—layers of stone with trees growing through the walls. Many Buddha statues were missing heads and hands, yet people still prayed. I wanted to join in, but as I raised my hands, I hesitated, unsure what to wish for.
That place stuck with me—not the Buddhas or the stones, but the feeling, like a conversation cut short. At night, unable to sleep, I wondered: What if I hadn’t left that day? If I hadn’t packed up and moved on, would some things have stayed the same?
I realized some people leave not because there’s no path, but because there’s no place to return to. Over the years, I’ve moved through many cities, companies, and ventures, meeting all sorts of people. Some went back, some got caught up, and some are still searching.
We used to say, "Once I’ve saved enough, I’ll go home." But "enough" never comes. By the time you want to return, everyone at home has adjusted to life without you. Parents stop asking, friends stop calling, and in holiday videos, everyone’s moved on, while you’re stuck in the past.
I came to understand that being called "boss" is just a title. When you turn off your phone and close your door at night, nobody calls you that, and nobody cares how much you’ve earned. After all these years, what’s left isn’t money.
It’s memories you’re afraid to revisit, the 3 a.m. glow of your computer, fewer contacts in your phone, and the suitcase you never fully unpack. It’s also the moment at Angkor Wat when I raised my hand and then let it fall.
Sometimes I wonder: If I’d stayed a bit longer that day, would I have figured out what I’m really running from? Eventually, I realized it’s not the crackdowns, the storms, or the next destination.
What I truly can’t face is that after all these years, I still don’t know when I can go home. And the hardest part is realizing that while I thought I was just out here to earn money, I left my life on the road.
