Why Relocating A Second Time Might Be Harder Than We Think

It wasn’t a house, a job, or a relationship that made me doubt relocating a second time, it was a face cream.

I’ve always believed I’m not a tree; I can move. If I’ve done it once, I can do it twice, three times… even a fourth time. I trusted my own drive and the idea that the first move is the hardest. After that, everything else should be les doigts dans le nez.

I remember my first year in Germany. Long-distance trips made me really anxious. My first one was three months after my arrival: a ten-hour journey from Berlin to a small town in the southwest of Germany, Bad Saulgau. I was panicked. I stayed in alert mode the entire trip, scared of missing a connection or dealing with a delay.

But after repeating trips like that, something shifted. I became more confident. I started traveling alone, crossing borders, even continents, meeting wonderful people. I got addicted to that adrenaline rush of discovering new environments.

So I assumed relocating again would feel the same.

For months, I’ve been telling my friends I was ready to leave Germany anytime. New adventure? No problem.

Until this morning.

I was applying my face cream, when a thought suddenly crossed my mind: this cream is soo gooood, if I move to another continent, will I still find it?

And just like that, doubt appeared.

How can a face cream make you feel trapped?

That’s when I realised something important: sometimes we’re not afraid of change. We’re afraid of losing the version of ourselves that knows how to survive in a particular environment. Habits create a quiet sense of safety. We feel comfort in what looks familiar, in what belongs to our routine.

Sometimes it’s not houses, dogs, or even family that keep us in place; it’s the small habits. The soap you use. The food you buy without thinking. The routines so familiar you no longer see them.

Relocating isn’t just changing a place. It’s changing habits. And habits, as they say, have a tough skin. Oh, they really do.

What surprised me is that I’m not particularly afraid of leaving friends. Social media will keep us connected, and I believe there are good people everywhere. I’ll make new friends. What scares me more is how easily familiar comfort can make us overstay in situations that no longer serve us.

Dissatisfaction becomes normal. Comfort settles in so gently that we stop noticing it. Those small routines whisper to our nervous system: you’re safe here.

It’s conditioning.

And this is why, sometimes, we stay. Not because we think where we are is good, but because unfamiliar improvement feels riskier than familiar discomfort.

Getting comfortable can quietly mean forgetting our goals and dreams.

I believe in grounding when it aligns with long-term visions, family, career, or any other meaningful reason. But comfort alone? Comfort can be a very soft cage.

After much reflection, I choose to believe this: there are face creams just as good, or even better, elsewhere in the world.