Far Doesn't Mean Free: The Invisible Cost of Living Abroad

This essay was written for

Lauren Razavi

‘s

Global Natives

essay competition on the theme “The border is where inequality shows its teeth.” It was meant to be submitted by the closing date, May 1st, so I’m late. But putting it out anyways because I think the topic is quite important right now.

Of course I was going to enter. I’ve got a lot to say about borders and inequality — I’ve been living the contradictions of global mobility for nearly two decades.

And while I didn’t want to write yet another essay about my parents’ deaths — because, let’s be honest, grief is exhausting, and writing about it is emotional labour — it quickly became clear that this was the story. The most obvious one. The hardest one. And maybe the most important one to share.

Because this is a side of global living we don’t talk about enough. The part that doesn’t make it into TikToks or freedom-through-passport-hacks newsletters. The part about what it costs to be far.

If it resonates, please consider subscribing. I write regularly about the beauty and brutality of living abroad — the freedom, yes, but also the fallout.

🖤
Kaila

---

They say a strong passport is a privilege. That it opens borders, unlocks possibilities, and allows you to build a freer, fuller life on your own terms. And they’re not wrong.

But what they don’t say — what no one really prepares you for — is the cost.

The sharp, unexpected tax on your so-called freedom. The cold silence of a time zone when your loved one needs you most. The sickening reality of knowing that a plane ride home takes 36 hours and 3 layovers — and that by the time you land, the moment may have already passed.

Because distance isn’t just measured in miles. It’s measured in missed calls. In frantic messages. In the ache of a voice memo that says, “She’s not doing well,” followed by one that says nothing at all.

For nearly 20 years, I’ve lived abroad. I’m building a life between tropical islands and cobbled European streets. I raised a child outside the system. I grew a business in bare feet and beach dresses. I created a version of success that my old life couldn’t even imagine.

But what I’ve come to understand — and what this essay is about — is that even when you have every logistical advantage, even when you’re healthy, successful, and digitally connected to everyone and everything, being far means you are not free.

You’re not free to show up when it matters most.
You’re not free from the guilt of not being there.
You’re not free from the sick irony that your global life, built on agency and intention, becomes a trap in the face of crisis.

Three months ago, I lost my mom. I wasn’t there when she died. I tried — I got on the first plane I could. But she passed before I even left for the airport.

Eight years ago, I lost my dad. I was there when he died — but only after years of living too far away. Years I can’t get back. I visited often, but he kept urging me not to stay. He didn’t want me “sitting around waiting for him to die,” he said.

So I went back to Thailand. I kept choosing the life I’d built. And then one day, I couldn’t choose anymore.

This essay isn’t a eulogy. It’s a reckoning. A warning.

Because distance, I’ve learned, is not neutral. It’s a decision. A risk. A weight. And eventually, it will ask you what it was all for.

The Price of Distance No One Talks About

People love to romanticise the global life. The palm trees. The “work from anywhere” captions. The curated feeds that scream freedom, adventure, possibility. And honestly? I get it. I’ve lived that life. I’ve loved that life.

But there’s a cost no one talks about. And it’s not just the obvious stuff — the jet lag, the language barriers, the bureaucratic headaches. It’s something deeper. Something quieter. Something that doesn’t show up in Instagram reels or relocation guides.

It’s what happens when the people you love most need you — really need you — and you’re not there. Not because you forgot. Not because you didn’t care. But because you chose a life that made being there impossible.

Living abroad gives you freedom from all sorts of things: the rat race, social norms, inherited expectations, even the version of yourself you no longer wanted to be. But it will never give you the ability to be two places at once.

And when it comes to the hard stuff — the ageing, the illness, the caretaking, the dying — presence isn’t optional. It’s everything. There is no virtual substitute. No WhatsApp message or late-night FaceTime that can take the place of sitting beside someone’s bed, holding their hand, whispering I love you with your breath against their cheek.

Global mobility doesn’t just stretch your horizons — it stretches your heartbreak. You don’t just grieve the person. You grieve the distance. The missed hours. The hugs that never came. The time zones that swallowed your chance to say goodbye.

And sure — I know people die suddenly even when you live down the street. But when you live abroad, it doesn’t just increase the odds you won’t be there. It practically guarantees that when the time comes, you’ll be met with red-eye flights, conflicting time zones, unpredictable delays, bureaucratic obstacles — and a deep, bone-level helplessness.

No one tells you that when you move away.

But someone really should.

When the Call Comes

Despite everything, I believed I might still make it. Things were bad, like really bad, but I thought we had time. She’d just completed six weeks of chemo and radiation. I was on the other side of the world — in Thailand — but checking in daily, urging her to see a doctor again when things didn’t feel right.

I wasn’t getting straight answers. Michael, her husband, said she was dehydrated. Then it was salmonella. Then there was talk of antibiotics and an IV nurse. But something in me knew. Something didn’t sit right.

She called me once more from bed, weak and insistent that she would still go to her final treatment. I told her gently I disagreed, that I wished she’d wait. But I couldn’t make her do anything. “You’re a grown woman,” I said. “I’m in Thailand. You’re in Mexico. I can’t stop you.”

And in that moment, the sting of regret took hold. I had obeyed her wishes not to hop on a plane the moment she’d been diagnosed. I’d heeded her request to “come after chemo”. I’d been disciplining myself not to be too much — too controlling, too obsessive and too pushy with her treatment. Something she’d told me she was nervous about. But if I’d just listened to my gut and gone anyway, I could have prevented all of this.

That’s the thing about not being there: you miss the nuances. You miss the things that go unsaid and unrecognised. You have to take “Everything’s fine” at face value. And often it is. But sometimes it’s not.

She said she would go, unless she was too unwell. That was the last conversation I would ever have with my mother.

A day later, I got a call. The house-call doctor was there. He said she had, at most, 72 hours to live — and likely less. Even if she could be moved, even if she made it to a hospital in time, it would be too late. There were no treatments left.

I dropped to the floor. Not just from grief — but from the horror of helplessness. From knowing, in that moment, that I would never see her again.

The next morning, I woke up at 5:20 a.m. — long before my alarm. I lit a candle. Sat on my meditation mat. Poured tea. And I knew. I felt her leave.

The message confirming it came minutes later.

Freedom Fractures at the Gate

After my mom died, all I wanted was to get to Mexico. Not to say goodbye — that window had closed — but to be near her things. To sit in the space where her spirit still lingered. But air travel in crisis is not made for humans. It’s made for logistics. And grief is not logical.

The journey from Thailand to Mexico is long and layered. The first flight we booked only got me as far as Los Angeles. From there, I was meant to board a red-eye to Guadalajara — except it was flying from Ontario, California, not LAX. A two-hour mistake that cost us money and time. We rebooked. We scrambled.

Eventually, we found a flight that connected properly — but when I tried to check in for my Volaris leg, the website wouldn’t load. At the desk, I was told the flight had been oversold. I could wait, or take a refund.

She was already gone. So I took the refund and a hotel room. I took a bath and tried to rest.

But the travel trauma wasn’t done.

When Fraser flew out from Scotland with our son to meet me, the system broke again. Booking errors. Visa mix-ups. Layover madness. And when he tried to fly home with her ashes, he was denied boarding. Escorted from the terminal. All because I had mistakenly taken the bag with her death certificate while rushing for another gate.

We lost our flight and nearly our mind with the bureaucracy that came next, and that was after a hellish month spent grieving and dealing with the business of death in Mexico.

You can’t make this stuff up.

This is what “freedom” really looks like when it matters: crying in security queues, pleading at counters, watching staff shrug and send you elsewhere. No one helps. No one takes responsibility. You just bleed — time, money, energy — and pray you make it.

No One Brings a Casserole in Mexico

Grief is supposed to come with casseroles.

People show up. They take your kid for a few hours. They drop soup at your door and offer to do your laundry. They cry with you. They sit in silence beside you and let you fall apart.

But when you lose your mother while living on the other side of the world, grief comes differently. It arrives through a phone screen. It sits with you in silence — not because someone is beside you, but because no one is.

When I planned my mom’s wake in Mexico, I reached out to every family member, every old friend. Her closest circle. Her people. I didn’t expect everyone to come, but I was shocked at how many simply… didn’t. Even those she’d shown up for time and again.

Some sent apologies. Others just didn’t respond.

It wasn’t just disappointing — it was destabilising. I needed people. I needed her people. But they weren’t coming. And neither, of course, were mine. My best friends — my ride-or-dies — are scattered across 4 continents. They showed up emotionally: with voice notes, daily messages, a generous donation toward something healing. But not physically. Because, as I wrote in my journal that week: Mexico is far.

And there is no ritual for that.

Even her wake, though beautiful, was haunted by absence. There were moments of grace — like the opera singer she must have sent me at just the right moment, belting Ave Maria so achingly I had to redo my makeup. There was my best friend’s eulogy she wrote just for that day. There was wine, laughter, mariachi guitars, and the shimmering lake where we scattered her ashes.

But there were only 20 of us.
And none of the people who raised me.

Not one bouquet from an old family friend. Not one cousin. Not even from those who could have easily come.

I kept trying to reframe it. She wouldn’t have wanted a big fuss. She’d be happy we made it beautiful. She’s here anyway.

But I didn’t believe it.

Because I didn’t just lose my mom — I lost the web around her. The community that used to hold us both.

And when that web disappeared, I realised how tightly it had held me — even from afar.

Grieving abroad is grieving without casseroles.
Without comfort.
Without context.

You don’t just lose the person.
You lose the people who remember her laugh.
Who knew when she started going grey.
Who could look at you in that moment and say, “God I miss her,” and share the grief.

Unshackled, But Alone

Yes, I have a Canadian passport. Yes, I’ve had the kind of freedom most people dream of: the sunsets, the space, the ability to choose. But freedom isn’t just about where you can go. It’s about where you can be when it matters.

And in the moments that counted most, I wasn’t there.

Not when she got sick. Not when she passed. Not for the long goodbye. Not for the quiet understanding between mothers and daughters at the end.

I respected her wishes. I honoured her independence. But I also missed it all.

That’s what I carry now. Not just grief — but the long echo of absence. Not just her death — but all the life I didn’t get to share with her in the end. The mornings we could’ve spent in bed together, watching terrible TV. The walks around the neighbourhood. The hospital snacks. The silence. The smell of her skin. The everydayness of it.

Because when you live far away, you lose more than the final goodbye.

You lose the before.

You lose the hospital visits and chemo appointments. You lose the awkward jokes, the unsaid things that finally get said. You lose the casseroles. You lose the community that forms around loss. You lose the context — the one that helps you understand what just happened, and why it matters so damn much.

People talk about freedom like it’s a destination.
A plane ticket.
A choice.

But freedom without presence is a paradox.
And sometimes, it’s a prison.

I built a beautiful life far away. I would still choose it again — mostly. But I wish someone had told me to choose it with open eyes. To know the risks. To understand that distance, while romantic at first, comes with a toll.

Because the day will come — it always does — when someone you love is on the other side of the world, and you’ll be left calculating flight times instead of sitting by their side.

We were told freedom meant leaving.
But no one warned us that being far meant watching the people we love vanish through a screen.
That absence, once chosen, might one day choose us back.