Every Wednesday, K Redd is telling the truth about what it actually cost to leave — the parts that don't make it into the photos. This is Part 5.

Before I moved abroad, community was almost automatic.

I come from a big family. There were cookouts, birthdays, holidays, random get-togethers, and plenty of opportunities to see people without having to think too hard about it. I could pull up. I could show up. I could be in the room.

Right before my wife, Cam, and I left the United States, we hosted Thanksgiving. We cooked. Her family came. My family came. There were probably around 20 people in the house, maybe more.

Less than two weeks later, on December 6, 2025, we left the country.

Then Christmas came.

And Christmas was weird as hell.

I had never spent Christmas away from my family before. Growing up, Christmas had a rhythm. My mother made brunch. There was a tree. There were gifts. I knew my mother was going to give me something, and I especially knew there would be a new pair of pajamas somewhere in the mix.

Christmas 2025 did not feel like Christmas.

We had just moved to Colombia. We had spent damn near all of our money relocating. We did not fully understand how Christmas was celebrated there yet. We had no decorations. We did not really have money to go out and do anything.

It felt like a regular day.

That was probably one of the first times I really felt the distance.

I could not just pull up on somebody.

I could not go to the family function.

I could not hop in the car and see my grandmother, my siblings, or anybody else.

I was far away.

But here is something I had to learn.

After the holidays, I started noticing something else.

My phone did not ring as much.

I have always been the person who calls people. I check in. I reach out. I have always been the one who knows what is going on. My family is so used to me being in the know that even now, my grandmother will call me asking where somebody is or what somebody is doing.

And I am like, "Lady, I do not know. I am in another country."

I am far removed from a lot of what happens back home now.

Before I moved, I did not have to think as much about who was maintaining certain relationships because I could physically be there. Family had an event, I showed up. Someone had a birthday, I showed up. There was a cookout, I showed up.

That part can hurt.

Sometimes I have thought, damn, is anybody thinking about me?

Then I started thinking about something else.

Why were some people calling me before?

Did they want to talk to me?

Did they miss me?

Or did they need something?

I have always been resourceful. I spent years doing work where I was solving problems for people. At Comcast, Verizon, peer support work, and plenty of other places in my life, I was often the person people came to when they needed an answer, a resource, a solution, or somebody to help figure something out.

Even my grandfather recently said something along the lines of, "If you were here, I would not have anything to worry about."

And my thought was basically, well, I am not there.

So now people have to figure some things out without me.

And maybe that is not a bad thing.

Matching energy means something different to me now than it did when I was younger.

Back then, matching energy could be petty.

You do something to me, I do something back.

You act funny, I act funnier.

Tit for tat.

I was much more ruthless about it.

Now, matching energy looks different.

If you are not putting energy into me, I am not going to keep pouring energy into you.

I am not going to chase your attention.

I am not going to chase your love.

I am not going to keep calling and calling and trying to force a connection you are clearly not maintaining.

Cam says something that I think about all the time.

And "fuck you" can come in a lot of forms.

It can be, "I do not want to talk to you."

It can be being ignored.

It can be repeated silence.

It can be you reaching out over and over while the other person does absolutely nothing.

People do not always have to say the words.

Sometimes silence is the response.

If I reach out several times and get nothing back, eventually I stop.

Not because I hate you.

Not because I am trying to punish you.

Not because I am waiting for you to notice I disappeared.

I just got the message.

I learned a long time ago that sometimes you have to grieve people who are still alive.

I have had friendships end that hurt me deeply. I have had relationships change in ways I did not want them to change. At some point, I had to learn that grief is not limited to death.

Sometimes it made me sad.

But I also understood that not every relationship is supposed to remain exactly the same forever.

At one point, I questioned whether moving abroad had made me more independent or more guarded.

When things get heavy, who do I call?

Honestly?

Nobody, for real for real.

That sounds worse than it feels.

The truth is, I have spent years becoming someone who immediately starts thinking about solutions.

Can I do something about this?

Is this in my control?

Am I stressing over something I cannot change?

How does this affect me directly?

What are my options?

What can I do next?

I have worked on my mental health. I have worked on my mindset. I have worked on not immediately labeling everything as good or bad.

Because sometimes something feels terrible in one moment, and later you realize it pushed you somewhere you needed to go.

Losing my job is a good example.

Was losing my job stressful?

Absolutely.

There were moments where Cam and I were like, "Okay, where is the money going to come from?"

But then money came from different places.

School.

Business.

Unexpected payments.

Settlements.

Opportunities.

And more importantly, losing my job gave me something I did not have before.

Time.

Time to pour into Sovereign Sundays.

Time to focus more on school.

Time to build.

Time to create.

So was losing my job bad?

I do not know if I look at life that way anymore.

It was difficult.

It was inconvenient.

It was uncomfortable.

Sometimes you have to let life finish the sentence before deciding what something meant.

Now let us talk about something people do not always mention when discussing loneliness abroad.

Money.

Money matters.

A lot.

Sometimes what feels like loneliness is not necessarily loneliness.

Sometimes you are broke.

Sometimes your money is tight.

Sometimes you have been sitting in the house because you cannot spend money the way you want to.

And when you have money, your options expand.

The next day you are trying to figure out what the hell happened.

People live paycheck to paycheck.

Jobs disappear.

Unexpected bills happen.

So then the question becomes:

Who are you when you cannot spend money to entertain yourself?

How do you take care of yourself?

How do you keep yourself engaged?

How do you get out of the house?

One thing I love about living in South America is that in many places, transportation can be affordable, neighborhoods are walkable, and there is a lot happening around you if you actually pay attention.

Go outside.

Walk.

Find the free museum.

Look for local events.

Figure out what is happening in the neighborhood.

Learn the holidays.

Learn the traditions.

Pay attention to how people celebrate.

When we stayed in Carmen Alto in Peru, there were celebrations happening all around us. Fireworks would be going off in the middle of the day. There were parades and religious processions. People were carrying images of Jesus and saints through the streets.

It was loud as hell sometimes.

But it was culture happening right outside.

You have to familiarize yourself with where you live.

You cannot move abroad and expect your new country to entertain you.

You have to participate.

You have to get curious.

And that matters whether you have money or not.

What is funny is that Christmas 2025 was rough, but New Year's was only one week later.

And the experience was completely different.

I got paid.

That helped.

Money matters, remember?

Cam and I bought our yellow underwear, ate grapes under the table, went out, watched fireworks, and experienced a Colombian New Year's.

We enjoyed ourselves.

We met a couple of people from the UK and connected with them online.

We laughed.

We participated.

We made memories.

And that taught me something.

Our Christmas experience was not proof that moving abroad ruins holidays.

We were new.

We were broke.

We were unprepared.

We did not understand the culture yet.

By New Year's, even a week later, we were already learning how to participate in this new life.

This year, Christmas will be different.

First of all, we plan to have some money.

Let me keep it real.

We are going to plan better.

We are going to exchange gifts.

We are going to know what is open and what is closed.

We are going to understand what is happening around us.

We are more established now.

The first year teaches you things.

You learn how holidays work.

You learn where to go.

You learn where to eat.

You learn who calls.

You learn who does not.

You learn what you should have planned for.

And then you adjust.

One of the most beautiful things about Colombia was realizing that Cam and I could build community there.

We started making friends.

People knew us.

People cared.

Cam had coworkers.

I had routines.

I would jog down to her job because it was close by.

We were building a life.

We were creating familiarity.

That mattered.

But companionship and community are still different things.

Cam is my partner.

My family and friends are my community.

And moving abroad changed my access to that community, but it did not mean I lost it.

I tell people this all the time.

You can make your own family.

Blood does not automatically equal closeness.

History does not automatically equal support.

And living near someone does not automatically mean you have community.

I know people who say they do not deal with their family at all.

And I always say the same thing.

Build your own.

Find your people.

Create your own traditions.

Create your own support system.

Invite people into your life who actually want to be there.

Moving abroad taught me that community is not something that only exists because you grew up around certain people.

Community is something you build.

You participate in it.

You maintain it.

You create it.

And sometimes distance will expose which relationships were being held together by convenience.

That can hurt.

You may realize you were doing more work than you thought.

You may realize some people only contacted you when they needed something.

You may stop chasing certain relationships.

You may grieve people who are still alive.

You may miss family cookouts.

You may miss food from home.

You may randomly crave Jersey Mike's, an Olive Garden salad, Cheesecake Factory cheesecake, or some chicken wings with mambo sauce from your favorite D.C. carryout.

You are allowed to miss things.

Missing something does not mean you made the wrong decision.

K Redd, Arequipa

Part 6 of The Uncomfortable Truth drops next Wednesday. If this is the first thing of ours you've read, Sovereign Sundays goes out every Sunday.