When Leaving Is The Best Option
- Sherly Gómez Villatoro
- 1 day ago
- 3 min read
Choosing Belonging Over Stability
On paper, my life in the U.S. was stable. I had a steady income, my own place, and independence. But physically and emotionally, I was falling apart.
Hustle culture taught me that more hours meant more worth, that less rest meant more commitment, and that constant production was proof that I mattered. My days bled into one another – I had routines, friendships, and weekend plans. All the scaffolding of a full life, but nothing fulfilled me. I was performing productivity while abandoning myself.
I worked in disaster restoration, a high-pressure job with long hours and minimal time off. Eventually, the relentless pace became unsustainable. I longed for slower mornings. Birds chirping. A view of volcanoes within reach.
La Mudanza
For months, I weighed the pros and cons, trying to logic my way to the right answer. But in the end, it wasn't a spreadsheet decision – it was an emotional one. Once I made the decision, I didn't hesitate. I quit corporate America, packed my bags, sold my belongings, and left California behind.
Moving to Guatemala wasn’t about escaping work or ambition. It was about survival when the version of stability I had was no longer sustainable. Guatemala offered me a different kind of air, one that involved cafetico con las tias, reconnecting with my mother and sisters, building relationships with the community I’d never quite had before. Saying “Buenos días,” “buenas tardes,” and “buenas noches” just because. Culturally mandatory, yet completely natural.
Through this experience, I learned that becoming without belonging is its own kind of poverty. One where I’m rich in achievement and bankrupt in meaning. It doesn’t always look like upward mobility. Sometimes it looks like choosing culture, family, and mental health over constant acceleration.
I switched my routine to what others might consider a downgrade. I moved into an environment where socioeconomic inequality, limited job opportunities, and safety concerns linger. Yet despite all the ways it could have gone wrong, it became the life support I needed.
My relocation didn’t feel aligned at first. I was grieving the life I’d built while trying to trust a choice that didn’t yet make sense.
I relocated to Guatemala on November 2nd, 2024, just before Trump returned to the presidency. I didn't leave because of politics — I left chasing healing. But deep down, I knew I didn't want to live through his second term. I'd already watched his first presidency open the doors wide for closeted prejudice and racism. And months later, watching from Guatemala as his policies turned cruelty into law, I realized I'd made the right choice for reasons I hadn't fully understood.
I was leaving behind a country where, more and more, basic rights felt uncertain, shaped by forces far beyond my control. I couldn’t change that. But I could choose a different path for myself.
For a few months, I searched for the old me. I tried to recreate familiar routines to feel safe, to feel like who I used to be. But that version of me in L.A. was physically functioning and mentally deteriorating, disconnected from any real sense of cultural or emotional grounding. Letting go of that environment meant unlearning the version of myself I thought I had to be. In its place, a new version began to form. Still healing, still in progress, slowly becoming. No weekend getaways required. Even the simplest days heal the soul in ways I never imagined. Slow conversations. Shared coffee. Familiar laughter. Watching the sun rise behind the mountain, the moka pot steaming with hot espresso, listening to morning conversations with family. Being welcomed with arms wide open. Relearning a culture that measured belonging not by what I'd achieved, but by the fact that I'd come home.
When my grandfather fell ill, six families showed up at his door. Not because anyone called them. Just to check in, to offer help. Each brought something small: fruit, panecito, and a little financial support. I’ve seen people with very little still give generously, because caring for one another is simply part of who we are. Being there for our people. Nuestra gente. Nuestra comunidad.
My cousins, who were infants when I left, are now young adults. My tias and tios show how the years have caught up to them. The old homes I once knew are more developed, homier. Sunday breakfast with my family, light and warm laughter filling the home. Moments shared across the country didn’t just welcome me. They helped me see the real Guatemala, the Latin culture, the love and passion our people share, and the compassion we need more in the world.
Today, I’m grateful I chose to leave hustle culture and reclaim a slower, more human way of living. For so long, I lived to work. Here, I am finally learning how to simply be.