I moved abroad at 40 to escape loneliness. I didn't expect how hard it would be to go home.

• Deidre Donnelly decided that if she wasn't married by 40, she'd move abroad on her own.
• When the time came, she found a job in Vietnam and began socializing the way she had in college.
• It's been seven years, and Donnelly now feels torn between two homes and wonders what's next.

My late 30s were hard. Living alone in Cape Town, South Africa, I was holding out for a partner and children while my friends moved through weddings and baby showers without me.

My parents and sisters (including my twin) lived in another province, freelance writing work was drying up, and as 40 approached, I felt stuck — single, lonely, and unsure what came next.

So I made a deal with myself: If the picket-fence dream hadn't happened by 40, I'd leave. I didn't have a family of my own, but I had freedom, English, and nothing to lose. I packed up my life and accepted a yearlong EFL teaching job in Vietnam.

I took a one-way flight to a city I'd never heard of in a country I'd never visited.

The move was disorienting

Vietnam's humidity, population density, and traffic overwhelmed me. In Haiphong, the industrial port city in northern Vietnam that I now call home, foreigners are rare, and not many locals speak English. Some older locals don't take kindly to outsiders, so I had a few terse encounters with taxi drivers and traders.

But after three months, the adventure took hold. I went from living and working alone to having housemates, socializing the way I had back at university, learning a new language, and connecting with kids and teens.

When COVID hit halfway through my contract, some younger coworkers left, many were urged by their parents. I stayed.

By the time borders reopened, I'd traveled across the country, formed lasting friendships, taught hundreds of students, and come to belong to a community. I'd become accustomed to the city's gruffness and felt more in tune with its people. It became hard to even contemplate leaving. It still is.

In my time here, I've seldom been lonely. I'm surrounded by younger expat friends who are mostly single. I started a book club and a foodie club. There are daily moments of laughter across language divides with strangers.

Being a middle-aged woman with no husband or children is an anomaly here, but becoming "Teacher Dee" has helped me put aside some of the sadness of being childless — not by choice, but by circumstance.

I've gone from lamenting not having children to being surrounded by them. Neighborhood children shout "Helloooo!" as they whizz past on their bikes. In shops, parents nudge their kids to practice English with me. I get happy high-fives from spunky students.

Homesickness is inevitable

Early on, I often directed my interior monologue to my twin sister, narrating my new life to her in my head. These days, I connect with other South African friends who feel similarly torn. We even support our country during rugby matches, something I rarely did back home.

Vietnam has been good to me. I've gained teaching experience, become more sociable, and feel less financially stressed.

Now, nearing seven years of what began as a "break" from life back home, I'm contemplating what's next. Friends and family often ask, "When are you coming back?" The question looms larger as I edge closer to 50.

Home is no longer one place, but two. I pay for storage in Cape Town while accumulating more than I can fit into two suitcases in Haiphong. I exist in a constant state of longing for one place while living in the other.

I miss the nature, familiarity, and diversity of Cape Town, but I know I'd grieve the freedom, safety, and financial security I've found here. People say, "It'll always be there, waiting." I worry instead, "Has that door closed?"

I panic at the thought of missing all that's uniquely Vietnamese — a place that pulses with energy and possibility. Life spills out through open front doors, down alleys, onto sidewalk stools, into food markets and coffee shops, and onto the backs of zippy scooters. Most of all, I'd miss the people — especially the children.

Should I stay or should I go?

I see myself eventually settling back in Cape Town, but not yet. For now, I'm betwixt and between — juggling two career paths, with my head and heart stretched across continents.

After enough time abroad, returning can feel as daunting as leaving once did. My belongings are split between two homes, and so am I.

Do you have a story to share about living abroad? Contact the editor at akarplus@businessinsider.com.