388 Days From Home

I used to think growth came from adding more: more plans, more goals, more proof. Then I left home for a long while and learned the opposite. Distance subtracts. It strips away routines, assumptions, the version of you that works only in one postal code. What’s left is lighter, truer, and a little braver.

This isn’t a travelogue. It’s what a year away from home taught me; and why I think going abroad, if you can, is one of the kindest things you can do for your future self.

ARON during his Study Abroad in Japan, 2023

Learning to notice (instead of to know)

At first, I tried to know everything: the rules, the schedules, the polite phrases, the right door to stand behind. It didn’t work. What did work was noticing: shapes of clouds I’d never looked at, the way strangers lined up, the silence between sentences. Noticing is a muscle. Use it and fear quiets down, because curiosity has something to do. I stopped needing to be right and started wanting to be awake. What it gives you later: in any job or team, noticing beats assuming. You catch small frictions before they become big problems. You hear what people mean, not just what they say.

Identity, minus the background noise

Away from home, your usual mirrors are gone. You’re not “the funny one from X” or “the person who always does Y.” You’re just you, on a blank page. That felt disorienting at first; then freeing. I found out I’m calm underneath, observant by habit, and more grounded than I gave myself credit for. What it gives you later: you carry a steadier sense of who you are into new rooms. That makes collaboration easier and boundaries kinder.

Small goodbyes, practiced often

Studying abroad is a revolving door: you meet, you share kitchens and sunsets, and you say goodbye faster than feels fair. It hurts. It also teaches stamina for endings. I learned to treat goodbyes like punctuation; part of the sentence, not the point of it. You can hold gratitude and grief at once. What it gives you later: you don’t cling to projects, roles, or versions of yourself that have finished their paragraph. You make space for the next line.

Anxiety as a compass

I used to wait for confidence first. Abroad, anxiety arrived before everything: first class, first shop. I went anyway. Most fear turned into fluency; slowly, then suddenly. I still get the nerves; I just recognize them as trail markers. What it gives you later: you stop mistaking discomfort for danger. You start making the moves that build the calm you wanted in the first place.

The discipline of ordinary days

A year away isn’t all fireworks. It’s laundry coins, wrong buses, weather you didn’t pack for, and quiet weekends when everyone else is busy. I learned to make good use of ordinary days: cook something simple, walk a new street, write a paragraph, edit a sentence. Momentum is built, not found. What it gives you later: consistency. The kind that ships work and keeps teams trusting each other.

ARON during his internship in Barcelona, 2024

Language as an act of care

I believe language (written, spoken, and visual) can make people feel seen. Trying to live in another one taught me humility. You learn to ask better questions. You learn that tone carries more than vocabulary. You learn to use images, gestures, and silence as part of the sentence. Communication becomes less about performing and more about reaching. What it gives you later: clearer emails, kinder meetings, better briefs, steadier relationships; because you’re writing for understanding, not applause.

Building a portable home

Home turned out not to be a place. It was a handful of habits: morning stretches, a camera in my bag, a book, a short run when my head was loud. With those, a campus room or a small flat felt enough. I stopped needing perfect conditions to feel like myself. What it gives you later: resilience. You can reset anywhere.

Why go—if you get the chance

Because distance edits you. It shows you who you are without the distractions and gifts you a wider lens for other people too. It trains your attention, strengthens your patience, and softens your ego. It proves that you can begin again and be intact.

If I had to reduce a year to a pocket line, it’s this: leave, so you can come back larger. Not famous larger. Capacities larger; more able to notice, to listen, to choose, to care. That stays with you long after the suitcase is back in the closet.

And if you do go: write to your younger self now and then. Take the long way home sometimes. Learn the word for “thank you” before anything else. Practice the ordinary days. Say the goodbyes properly. Keep a small, brave list of things you’ll do even if you’re scared.

You’ll be alright. And, more importantly, you’ll be more you.

ARON