It’s been a while since I dived into Echoes of a Journey. Life has a way of pulling you in a dozen directions at once, and sometimes the past just sits there, waiting for you to turn around and really look at it.
We’re coming up on two years since my brief time in Japan.
Two years.
There’s no regret about going to Japan, and no regret about coming back. Both choices came from honest places, even if the outcomes weren’t what was imagined at the time. While living there, the ache for my pups never really left. My dogs are pretty much my entire world. Leaving them, even temporarily, felt like leaving a part of myself behind.
Being back in the United States these last two years, a different kind of longing has settled in.
The life that started to take shape in Japan eats at me; what could have been. There was a quiet peace to the daily routine in Okinawa. Most days were spent walking everywhere, learning the streets and corners, moving through the busyness on the way to work. Recently, while playing a game, the distinct sound of a Japanese crosswalk chimed through my headphones, and it hit how much that tiny sound had become stitched into daily life.
Since coming back, a hard truth has been impossible to ignore: life in Okinawa never really got a fair chance. It was one of those situations you don’t fully understand until it’s gone. The belief at the time was, “If it’s not perfect right away, something is wrong,” and only later comes the realization that of course it wasn’t perfect. It was brand new.
And here we are, two years later.
Where I Stumbled
Looking back, it’s easy to see all the places I got in my own way.
On the surface, life in Okinawa was simple. There was a routine, a job, a place to live. Inside, things were much less steady. The stumble came early, and recovery from that first wobble never quite happened. The move was fueled by a vague dream but not much of a plan beyond, “This will be a cool new chapter of my life.” The weight of homesickness, the depth of missing my dogs, and the particular kind of isolation that comes from being surrounded by people yet feeling on the outside of everything… those realities weren’t fully considered.
Despite speaking some Japanese, curiosity shrank in ways that were surprising. The imagined version of myself explored every street, tried every café, joined every little local event. The real version often stayed in the confines of his apartment, unable to leave out of fear.
Exploration felt impossible, especially on days when everything felt overwhelming, exhausting, or just… off.
I put pressure on myself to “get it right” immediately with the Japanese I knew. When I didn’t know how to say something or what to do, the instinct was to retreat instead of asking, instead of fumbling through, instead of allowing myself to be a beginner. Deeply ironic, considering how often students were encouraged to stumble and fumble their way through English without shame, while that same grace was never extended inward.
There were practical missteps too: money stress, not building a strong support system, and not creating routines that nurtured life outside of work. None of these made Okinawa unlivable, but together they made everything feel much heavier than it needed to be.
If I’m honest, there were days it felt like failure was just waiting around the next corner. And when you move through the world expecting to fail, it’s easy to find ways to prove yourself right.
If a redo were possible, it would be an easy “yes.” I would go back to give it another go. But life rarely hands out neat, clean second chances in the same place, with the same people, at the same stage of life. That version of Japan is gone. That version of me is gone too. What’s left is the work of sitting with what happened and learning from it.
What I Learned from Leaving
It turns out a life abroad is possible for me, but it has to be built with more intention.
Community, self-care, and staying connected to the people (and pups) who matter cannot be afterthoughts. Missing home and loving a new place can live side by side, and that tension doesn’t mean failure. Leaving a country doesn’t mean leaving problems behind. Run away from them in one place, and they’ll be waiting in the next, jet lag and all. The work of understanding patterns, anxiety, and needs doesn’t vanish just because the scenery changes.
Through all of it, one thing stayed steady: teaching still feels right. That moment when a student feels seen and supported, when a concept finally lands or discovers something, remained one of the few things that felt solid and true. Those moments were the most perfect in all the chaos and doubt that taunted me in Japan.
Here’s the surprising part, despite leaving Japan due to my personal insecurities, the desire to teach abroad never left. When I think about the future, teaching abroad still comes to mind like a small lantern in the dark that refuses to go out. Returning to Japan someday would be wonderful, but there’s also a pull toward other places and cultures, a curiosity about what life might look like elsewhere.
China, in particular, keeps tugging at the imagination. Part of that pull is practical. Opportunities for ESL teachers still exist, with different regions and school environments to explore. The rest is emotional. There’s a real urge to see who I can be in a new place with eyes wide open this time, not half-closed by fear and self-doubt.
Moving Forward, Not Backward
Japan didn’t work out the way I hoped. That’s the simple version. It held up a mirror and showed who I was when completely unmoored. He was scared, lonely, and overwhelmed, but he was trying. He got on the plane. He showed up to class. He walked unfamiliar streets. He did the best he could with the tools he had at the time.
Maybe, someday soon, China will offer new experiences to explore. Or something else entirely will take me on a completely different journey.
Until then, reflection and planning continue quietly in the background, getting ready for the day the bags are packed again, not to escape this life, but to expand it. The exact destination and the faces waiting there are still unknown, but there’s a growing confidence that, wherever the next chapter lands, it will be faced with more honesty, more intention, and a little more grace.
Jesús M. Rivera 