I remember the exact day my visa was approved. It was a Tuesday afternoon, hot and loud like most Lagos afternoons. I was in a crowded café, refreshing my email again and again, telling myself not to hope too much. When I saw the word approved, my hands started shaking. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, staring at my phone, feeling like my life had quietly split into before and after.

Everyone thought japa meant instant happiness. They didn’t see the months before it, the exhaustion, the rejection emails, the nights I stayed awake rewriting applications while PHCN took light. I was working full-time, supporting my family, and still trying to save for exams and application fees. Some days I felt guilty for wanting to leave. Other days I felt guilty for staying.

When I finally traveled, the excitement carried me through the airport. I took pictures. I smiled for my family. But the first night abroad, in my small rented room, reality hit me hard. The silence was heavy. No generator noise. No neighbor shouting. No familiar smell of home cooking. I lay on the bed and wondered if I had made a mistake.

The early months were humbling.

I had a degree, but my accent confused people. I had skills, but no “local experience.” I took jobs I never imagined doing, reminding myself that dignity doesn’t disappear just because life resets. Some days I cried quietly on my way home, missing my mother’s voice and the ease of belonging.

But slowly, things changed.

I learned the system. I made friends from different countries who were also starting over. I became braver—asking questions, applying again after rejection, speaking even when my voice shook. I noticed that the woman I was becoming was stronger than the one who boarded that flight.

Japa didn’t make my life perfect. I still missed Nigeria deeply, weddings I couldn’t attend, birthdays I watched through video calls, the taste of food that never felt quite the same. But it gave me room to breathe, to dream without constant fear, to imagine a future that felt more stable.

Now, when people ask me if japa was worth it, I pause.

Because japa is not an escape. It’s an exchange. You trade comfort for possibility, closeness for growth, familiarity for change. And for me, that trade though painful at times helped me find parts of myself I didn’t know I had.