When I first told friends I was moving to Portugal, the reactions were mixed. Some called it “a brave adventure,” others worried I’d regret stepping away from the U.S. for so long.

Nine months later, I can tell you this: leaving felt like leaping off a cliff, but landing in Portugal was like discovering there was a net woven of simplicity, connection, and joy waiting for me.

Now, as my return ticket to the States sits unused in my inbox, I’m facing a question I didn’t expect to ask myself: do I even want to go back?

Slowing down is not the same as falling behind

Back in the U.S., life often felt like a treadmill set just one notch too high. Even when I was “keeping up,” I was exhausted.

I’d start my mornings with a mental checklist already spinning: emails to answer, bills to pay, groceries to grab, deadlines to meet. By the time I collapsed into bed, I’d realize I had no real memory of the day itself—just a blur of tasks.

Portugal changed that almost immediately. Lunch here is not something you rush through with one hand on your phone.

It’s a sit-down, two-hour affair with actual pauses between courses, where the conversation flows just as richly as the wine. A neighbor once told me, “Comer é viver” (to eat is to live), and I began to understand she meant more than just food.

Conversations stretch lazily over coffee, sometimes turning into impromptu storytelling sessions about family history or local politics. Sunday afternoons are for strolling along the river or sitting in a praça, not racing through errands.

Psychologists often warn us about “hustle culture” and its link to burnout. Here, I’ve found the opposite: an unspoken agreement that productivity doesn’t define worth. The slower pace has reprogrammed my nervous system. I no longer equate rest with laziness—I see it as part of a well-lived life.

Community is not a buzzword, it’s a lifestyle

When I lived in the U.S., I often felt surrounded by people but starved for connection. Portugal flipped that script.

Within my first month, my neighbor Maria knocked on my door holding a warm loaf of bread. “You are far from home,” she said, “so now we are your family too.” We didn’t share a language at the time, but kindness doesn’t need translation.

The woman at the café near my apartment remembers my order without asking. Each morning she greets me with, “Bom dia, menina,” followed by a genuine inquiry into how I’m doing. It’s a far cry from the perfunctory “how are you?” I’d hear back in the States, where no one waited for the answer.

Even bureaucratic errands—things that would usually leave me stressed—turned into small conversations. A clerk once asked if I’d tried the local festival food yet, then pulled out her phone to show me pictures from the parade. I left with stamped paperwork and an unexpected sense of belonging.

Research shows that community ties are one of the strongest predictors of longevity. I felt that truth in every shared meal, every invitation to sit down for a chat, every unhurried wave from across the street. Back home, “community” often feels like something we schedule. Here, it happens naturally, in the spaces between daily life.

Money stretches further, but more importantly, it matters less

Yes, Portugal is more affordable than the U.S.—especially when it comes to healthcare, housing, and food. I could rent a sunny apartment near the ocean for less than half of what I’d pay in a mid-sized American city. Fresh produce at the market was so cheap I’d walk away with bags overflowing for under ten euros.

But what surprised me most was how much less central money feels here.

In the States, conversations about lifestyle often orbit around salary, promotions, or real estate. In Portugal, no one asked me what I did for work until they knew me well. The questions were simpler: Do you like living here? Have you tried the vinho verde? Did you enjoy the festival last weekend?

As noted by behavioral economist Dan Ariely, “We don’t only care about money, we care about meaning.” I didn’t fully understand that until I lived in a place where the cost of living wasn’t crushing and where joy didn’t come with a price tag.

Of course, money still matters—Portugal isn’t a utopia. But it’s not the organizing principle of daily existence. People here don’t seem obsessed with constant upgrades or keeping up appearances. Life feels lighter when you’re not being measured by the weight of your wallet.

Nature is woven into daily life

In the U.S., I used to schedule “outdoor time” like it was an appointment. A Saturday morning hike here, a weekend trip there.

Here, it just happens.

I walk to the market past lemon trees that release a citrusy burst into the air. I jog along coastal cliffs where the Atlantic crashes with a force that humbles you. Errands take me through tiled alleyways bathed in golden light.

Even mundane tasks like walking to the post office become small adventures when the path is lined with bougainvillea.

One evening, I sat by the ocean with locals who had brought guitars and snacks. They played, we sang, strangers drifted over, and the sky turned pink. It wasn’t an event—it was just Tuesday.

Being outdoors has been shown to lower stress hormones and increase creativity. But you don’t need a study to tell you what your body already knows: when the sea breeze hits your face daily, life feels lighter.

Healthcare doesn’t feel like a luxury

One of the most sobering differences I experienced was healthcare.

In Portugal, a routine doctor’s appointment costs less than a dinner out. Medications are affordable. Even when I needed a test done, the bill was a fraction of what I would have expected back home.

The system isn’t perfect—appointments can take time, and rural areas sometimes lack resources. But it doesn’t carry the same undercurrent of fear. Back in the U.S., even with insurance, I remember hesitating before making appointments because of cost. The thought, What if I can’t afford this? always hovered in the background.

Here, healthcare feels like what it should be—a human right, not a financial gamble. That shift alone has made me question what I once accepted as “normal.”

Identity feels less tied to work

In America, one of the first questions you’re asked is, “What do you do?” In Portugal, the question is more likely to be, “Where are you from?” or “What do you enjoy?”

At first, I found this disorienting. My professional identity had always been my anchor. I was “the financial analyst,” or later, “the writer.” Without that, who was I?

But with time, it became liberating. I stopped leading with my résumé and started leading with my curiosity. I introduced myself with stories about the trails I’d run that weekend or the plants I was learning to grow on my balcony. Work was still part of me, but it wasn’t the headline.

As Rudá Iandê writes in Laughing in the Face of Chaos, “Your value doesn’t come from the roles you play—it comes from your existence.” Living here made that lesson tangible.

Joy hides in the ordinary

Maybe the biggest shift has been my recalibration of joy.

In the U.S., I often felt pressured to chase “peak experiences”—the big trips, the career wins, the milestone purchases. In Portugal, joy shows up in smaller, quieter ways.

A pastel de nata with perfectly blistered custard. Fado music drifting out of a doorway at night. The rhythm of waves syncing with your breath as you walk along the sand.

I still remember one night when fireworks lit up the sky unexpectedly. No one had announced it. Families spilled into the streets, couples clinked glasses on balconies, children laughed and pointed upward. For a brief ten minutes, the entire town seemed suspended in collective wonder. That moment cost nothing, but it felt priceless.

As sociologist Christine Carter has noted, “Happiness isn’t found in grand moments, but in micro-moments of connection.” My nine months here have been proof of that.

So, will I ever go back?

That’s the question I’ve been circling. I still love aspects of the U.S.—my family, the cultural energy, the vast landscapes. There are conveniences and opportunities that Portugal doesn’t have.

But the truth is, Portugal has shifted something fundamental in me.

I no longer want to measure life in promotions or possessions. I want to measure it in afternoons well spent, in friendships that don’t feel transactional, in mornings that begin with sunlight instead of stress.

Leaving the U.S. was supposed to be temporary. But finding a place that feels like home in all the ways that matter? That’s not something I can easily walk away from.

So, when people ask me if I’ll go back, I give the only honest answer I can: maybe. But the part of me that finally feels alive here whispers, why would you?