23: Lack of courage

Why I moved to Vietnam

The content of this post is why I decided to offer paid subscriptions to my newsletter. It was supposed to be the first paid post, but I’ve been procrastinating. Paid posts might appear sometimes to be some sort of restaurant gatekeeping. Truly, the HCMC Restaurant List and accompanying monthly updates represent fun, fluff content to thank people for spending time with my dark side (my only side?).

I’ve been procrastinating on writing this post because I figured it would be the hardest thing I’ve written so far. Not hard because I didn’t want to write about this topic. I’ve wanted to write about this part of me, knew I should write about this part of me, for a while, but I’ve been afraid to fully articulate it because of how it might be received. That is what was hard: how to write about it so that it could be adequately understood. I’m glad that my tiny group of paid subscribers are largely close friends who do know or probably know or won’t be surprised to know this part of me.

My biggest fear is that it will make besties and non-besties alike sad, and that the sadness will change how people see me. Those who know me well already understand the melancholy and misanthropy that colour my view of the world, my sense of humour, and my ambition. It’s those who don’t. It’s not important for everyone to get or accept me, but. I still wouldn’t want to be misconstrued by or turn off a casual reader. So, the difficult content has to be paid content right now.

My biggest hope for those who read this post is that it will just bring your picture of me into more focus. No surprises, just clarity.

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Why did I move to Vietnam.

Sure, it was for some adventure. I’m 44. I don’t think I have endless time in front of me for career and continent changes. Most especially as someone who is single and has to rely on herself for all the adulting of income, health insurance, bill payments… yawn, snore, snooze. So I did what felt like a less secure thing while I still had the energy and also the ability to stay on top of yawn/snore/snooze stuff.

Courageous is a word I’ve heard people use when talking about my move—would they use that word with a man, I always wonder—and I remember hearing it when I moved from Edmonton to Vancouver at age 30 and from Vancouver to New York City at age 32 (expectedly absent for the move back to Edmonton). I’ve always found it such an ill-fitting word. Why is it courageous to pick up and leave when you have so few of the traditional trappings that keep people grounded? My view has always been, if there is anyone who should or could cut loose easily, it’s me.