I moved from NYC to Colombia earlier this year. The change has helped my burnout and saved me money.

• I lived in New York for eight years, but moving to Colombia felt like a breath of fresh air.
• My dollar stretches further in South America.
• I’ve moved internationally before, and the decision came easily to me.

When I first moved to New York in 2017, I drank the Kool-Aid: work hard, play hard. I had just finished university and another journalism internship in Vienna, and flew across the Atlantic with one suitcase and my résumé in hand. It felt like a scene from a movie.

For eight years, I lived a Sex and the City lifestyle on a budget: strutting down the streets in high heels, heading to my first corporate job with fire and hope in my heart. I left for a scrappy PR agency, of which I’m now the Vice President. I also kept writing — not at a chic desk facing the window like Carrie Bradshaw, but in bed. My first apartment didn’t have a living room.

I enjoyed living in NYC for eight years.

Over time, I upgraded: from sharing a tiny apartment in Manhattan with difficult people to a larger place in Brooklyn with great roommates. From a bachelor’s degree to a master’s. From casual sex to celibacy. From undiagnosed to clarity about my mental health.

And I realized: I was craving stability. But New York, for all its glory, couldn’t provide that for me. Friendships sometimes felt hollow since I came from a different culture. Dating felt like trying to catch fish with my bare hands. The money I made went straight to rent, food, and the occasional festival.

When I first moved there at 22, I thought the world was my oyster. At 30, it still is.

After living with my family for five months, I realized I wanted to move to a new place.

In January, after five months in Europe living with my family, the city suddenly felt wrong. I stopped going out on weekends. Other than the gym, I barely left my apartment. That “New York or nowhere” slogan started to feel like brainwashing. My mentor once called New York “a playground for 24-year-olds,” and I started to think he was right. I was aging out of it — or my previous lifestyle.

Timing was on my side. My lease in East Harlem was up in March. My boss was supportive, some colleagues had already been working remotely, and client meetings had been online since the start of the pandemic. Plus, travel is great for writing.

So I set off to Argentina on a whim. Six weeks later, I was hiking Machu Picchu. In June, I landed in Medellín — a city the nomad community calls paradise.

Colombia is beautiful, and I’ve made lovely friends here, too.

As the cab from the airport turned a corner to reveal the valley, the mountains, and a soft fog blanketing it in the late-afternoon sun, I understood why. The visual evoked the same emotions as the New York skyline.

“Paradise” goes beyond the city’s beauty: I made local friends immediately, who don’t speak English, and thus helped me become fluent in Spanish within five months of learning it. We play beach volleyball on Sundays, followed by a barbecue dinner. Expats and locals merge in a very NYC way. I’ve replaced the subway with Uber Moto, and as we speed past cars and trees, I can barely remember what sweating on the train felt like.

I also save money here.

That first Airbnb was in Laureles, and in July, I moved to another one in Ciudad del Río, Poblado. I’ve continued to stay in Airbnbs. I like not signing a lease; it gives me freedom and independence, and I like having a turnkey apartment.

Right now, I’m staying in a large studio in a luxury building with a pool and spa, and paying maybe 15% of what I would be paying for similar accommodations in New York. In Colombia, I buy high-quality groceries and rarely spend more than $50 a week. I can get coffee and a pastry for less than $5.

Being back in New York as a visitor confirmed my decision.

I did go back to New York for three weeks in August — to see my friends and storage unit. Being back as a quasi-visitor felt exciting. But I also felt the same subtle panic I had grown accustomed to living there, only worse, after feeling transformed by five months in South America.

My weekly grocery haul was now $150, thanks to tariffs. The subway ride to Manhattan, squished between commuters, felt endless. My attempt to visit the dentist failed — I had already hit my insurance max for the year.

I’m proud of myself for moving.

When my redeye back to Medellín took off, I breathed a sigh of relief. And I was proud: of lugging 260 pounds of luggage down from my fifth-floor walk-up. Of making a decision for a calmer life.

The next morning, after coffee at my favorite spot, I called my mom in Germany: “I’m home.”

My Medellín friends welcomed me with flowers and chicharrón. New York will always be a home I can return to. But life in Colombia feels like a rebirth — I’m drinking the LATAM Kool-Aid now.

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