America told me I wasn’t enough. That I needed to work harder. That success was just around the corner if only I sacrificed more—more time, more energy, more of myself. America told me to worship God. To worship the dollar. But it never could tell the two apart. America told me I was too far left, that I cared too much, that I should pick myself up by my bootstraps. America told me I was mentally ill. America told me I was losing the race.
But life is not a race. Life is not a test. Life is an experience to be lived. And what is the point of that experience if it is spent working endlessly, saving for a retirement that may never come? Where a brief weekend, a rushed dinner, a stolen hour with a loved one—who is usually a pet—is all that’s given in return for decades of labor. The work-life balance is a lie. There is no balance. There is no freedom unless you claw your way to the top.
And even then, you are still a slave.
America told me other countries were unsafe. That I had everything I needed because I had a garbage disposal. That I was safe because police were present.
But safety, I learned, is not the absence of crime. It is the absence of fear. And I did not know how much fear I carried until I left.
The fear of falling behind. The fear of losing everything if I got sick. The fear of walking past a cop. The fear of never having enough, of working until I was too broken to enjoy the scraps of freedom dangled before me.
In the U.S., rent alone can swallow half a paycheck, medical bills can cripple a lifetime of savings, and the cost of simply existing is a weight that never lifts. A one-bedroom apartment in a major U.S. city? $2,000 a month. Health insurance? $500 if you’re lucky. A dinner out? $50 before the tip.
In Cambodia, my rent is $200. A full meal, rich with flavor, is $2. Healthcare is affordable, even without insurance. My days are my own. I wake up when I want. I work to live—I do not live to work.
America claims freedom like religions claim truth. But claiming something does not make it real. You are not free. You are being squeezed like a lemon, every last drop extracted before you’re discarded.
Get out while you can. The air is lighter here. The sky is wider. Life moves slower, and joy is not something to be scheduled between shifts. I did not experience true happiness until I left. And the only sorrow I carry now is that those I love are still trapped, still racing, still worshiping the almighty dollar.
The American Dream is a lie. And I woke up.
