Today, my student and I barely studied English.
I had already prepared lesson materials before class, so when she told me she wasn’t in the mood for a proper lesson, I panicked a little. I spent hours meticulously preparing the lesson for today and didn’t anticipate this sudden change.
Personally, I hate wasted preparation. So I quickly pulled up some conversation prompts instead, ready to salvage the hour somehow.
But I barely got to use them.
She immediately started talking about her week. Her parents had visited her in Canada recently, and she spent the lesson telling me about the places they went to, the food they ate, the memories they made together. I mostly listened while occasionally correcting grammar or helping her find the right vocabulary.
Then the conversation shifted.
She told me she was thinking about moving to the United States.
Not because she hated Canada. Actually, the opposite.
She told me she loved her unit. Loved her coworkers. Loved the social benefits. She has a boyfriend there. A life there. Stability. Routine. Familiarity.
But then came the sentence that made me quietly stop in my tracks.
The Question Beneath the Question
“I’m very happy here… but …”
She explained that she finished nursing school at 30 and now, past 35, she feels like time is running out. She wants to build wealth. Buy a house. Buy a car. Have a future family someday.
She said she wishes she could’ve spent more on her parents during their visit. She saw how happy and proud they were of her success, so she wants to have them visit more frequently and dote on them more.
Her friends in the United States tell her the salary is much better there, even if the work is harder. A friend who works in New York tells her how she hates it, while another friend said the money offsets the crap.
Then she asked me:
“What do you think, Pamela? What is your experience?”
And suddenly the lesson stopped feeling like a lesson.
Because I knew exactly what she meant.
I heard myself in her almost immediately. Not just in the practical concerns about money, but in that specific guilt ambitious immigrants carry — the feeling that happiness alone is not enough reason to stay somewhere.
Things were going well for her. That was the tragedy of it.
Because when things are going badly, leaving is easy. But when your life is actually good — when you have people you love, a workplace you enjoy, a rhythm you’ve slowly built for yourself — ambition starts sounding less like opportunity and more like an eviction notice.
I understood her because years ago, I had my own version of that conversation.
What I Lost When I Left
The truth is, I was happy in the UK.
Not perfectly happy, mind you. Some of my coworkers were racist motherfuckers. I was broke. I gave most of my money to my family back home and survived on leftovers. I didn’t have luxury bags, gold jewelry, a car, or my own apartment.
But I had friends.
I had a boyfriend.
The patients were generally nice and understanding.
I had time to enjoy my days off.
I was leaner. Healthier. More curious about life.
I felt more alive there.
More like myself.
And what I lost when I left was my whimsy.
That’s the only word I can use for it.
I lost my ability to dream slowly. To write poems and appreciate art. To watch plays. To marvel at every old church and street.
To imagine a life instead of strategically engineering one. To exist somewhere long enough for it to truly become mine.
To love.
A Weak Yes Is a Strong No
I don’t regret the decision to come to the United States itself. I need to be clear about that. Money matters. Financial security matters. Convenience, safety, stability — these things are not shallow desires. It’s easy to romanticize struggle until you’re eating eggs and rice every day and calling malnutrition “minimalism.”
But I regret the circumstances surrounding my decision.
I did not originally want to move to the United States. My original goal was to become a clinical instructor. I was already studying for my Master’s degree at the time. But slowly, subtly, the decision stopped feeling like mine.
I was told that as the eldest child, the “golden daughter”, that it was my responsibility to lift the family out of poverty. That because I was clothed and fed, that my sole purpose was to pay back the tuition fees, pay off the cars, and send my brothers to school.
That because of familial piety and culture, I don’t get to be a human that has dreams and desires.
And because America paid more, the implication became clear: if I truly loved my family, then this was what I had to do.
People call these “choices,” but I’ve started questioning how much of a choice something really is once guilt enters the equation.
Because consent requires honesty.
Consent requires freedom.
And a weak yes is a strong no.
Leaving Too Early, Staying Too Long
That’s the part I wanted my student to understand, even if I didn’t say it directly during class.
I wasn’t trying to convince her to stay in Canada or move to the United States. I simply wanted her to understand that leaving is an option, not a milestone.
Not everything needs to be a Yes or a No. Sometimes, Wait is also valid decision.
People often misunderstand this.
We treat happiness like a temporary phase instead of something we’re allowed to fully inhabit. We think every good chapter must eventually be sacrificed in the name of growth, optimization, or financial progress.
Sometimes that sacrifice is worth it. Again, financial security is a very real and valid need. If moving to a different country provides you that, then leaving is a wise decision.
But sometimes it isn’t.
I think people deserve informed consent before making life-altering decisions. They deserve honesty about what they gain and what they may quietly lose in the process.
Because leaving a place too early interrupts something.
Your rhythm.
Your relationships.
Your identity.
Your understanding of the people around you and your place among them.
You never fully arrive anywhere because you’re always preparing for the next departure.
But staying too long has its own consequences too.
I learned that the hard way in America.
Because there comes a point where “stability” quietly becomes stagnation. Where a cushy environment starts dulling you instead of nurturing you. Where convenience becomes a cage disguised as comfort.
And that kind of stagnation is dangerous because it happens slowly.
You stop dreaming.
Stop exploring.
Stop imagining alternatives for yourself.
You start convincing yourself that this stagnation is what life is supposed to be.
You survive well enough that nobody questions it — including you.
Until one day you wake up and realize you have spent years enduring a life that no longer fits you simply because it was practical.
I think people romanticize suffering too much, but I also think comfort can make people spiritually sedentary.
Growth requires friction. Not constant chaos. Definitely not poverty nor self-destruction.
But movement.
Curiosity.
Discomfort.
Somewhere along the way, I stayed in the United States long after I already knew something inside me was dying here.
And maybe that’s why this conversation with my student affected me so deeply.
Because I have experienced both mistakes:
Leaving a place too early.
And staying somewhere too long.
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