I spent years trying to blend in after moving to France. 10 years later, I've realized I don't have to.

• Vivienne Zhao was born in China and moved to France at 22.
• For years, she chased a sense of belonging.
• Now, 33, she believes meaning can exist without permanence — a view that her mom disagrees with.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Vivienne Zhao, 33, a French teacher. Her words have been edited for length and clarity.

For years, I treated belonging as a measure of my worth. I believed that if I spoke well enough, adapted carefully enough, and paid close enough attention to other people's expectations, I would eventually earn my place.

Living abroad in France taught me otherwise. Not suddenly, and not dramatically, but slowly, through repetition.

I learned that language, effort, and proximity all have limits. That you can do everything "right" and still remain slightly outside. And that this distance isn't necessarily a failure, it's often just the reality of living between cultures.

Learning to adapt — long before France

I was born in China and spent my childhood moving between three Chinese cities.

After graduating with a journalism degree from a university in central China, I moved alone to Paris in 2015. Inspired by a love of cooking and shows like "Top Chef," I decided to study French cuisine. My father supported the leap, while my mother initially pushed for a more conventional path. Eventually, she came around. At 22, I enrolled at Le Cordon Bleu.

I arrived in Paris with a backpack, a suitcase, and nine months of French study behind me. I believed preparation would carry me through.

Very quickly, that belief was tested. Paris didn't match the France I imagined. It wasn't the welcoming countryside town I'd spent two weeks in for a school exchange when I was 14.

For someone reserved, like me, forming friendships with locals was harder than I'd imagined.

Chasing belonging

There was no single moment when I realized I might never fully "belong." It became clear gradually. During my first two years, I lived in a house with Chinese students. I attended language exchanges, hoping to connect with French people and feel closer to local life. Conversations were pleasant, but fleeting.

English — which I'd been taught in school — became essential. My closest friendships were with other international students.

I started dating a French man, hoping proximity would help. At one of his friend's weddings, I noticed that conversations faded the moment he stepped away — not from exclusion, but uncertainty. We didn't share the same humor, references, or history.

That experience changed how I saw belonging. It couldn't be earned through effort or language alone. Accepting that freed me from seeing it as a personal failure.

Finding stability through work

I decided that if I couldn't belong socially, I could at least be reliable. That mindset shaped how I approached work, especially during the five years I spent in French restaurants. I didn't seek attention or closeness. What mattered was competence — meeting expectations and delivering what the chef required.

In one restaurant, I would arrive hours early to prep and often worked through breaks to keep service running. One night, overwhelmed and out of prepared fish, the chef turned to me. Under pressure, I filleted an entire tuna for service. She was impressed by my speed and precision, and from then on trusted me with full preparations when she was delayed.

I made mistakes, but over time, professional trust became my anchor. Earned quietly through consistency, it offered a form of belonging that didn't rely on intimacy or personality.

By my fourth year, my French was strong. Still, I discovered language's limits. I understood the words, but not always the references — the childhood TV shows, school memories, and cultural shorthand that shaped connection.

There were subtler distances, too. French humor often relies on teasing and irony, and disagreement signals engagement. Coming from a background that values harmony, I sometimes felt emotionally out of sync, even when socially accepted.

I eventually left the restaurant industry due to its physical intensity. I focused fully on language study, earned a graduate degree in teaching French as a foreign language, and became a French teacher.

Redefining home and self

For a long time, I measured my worth through social reactions and assumed distance meant failure. Over time — through age, reflection, journaling, and publishing essays — that mindset softened.

My understanding of home shifted, too. My mother believes belonging is rooted in permanence, in returning to where you come from. Yet each time I go back to China, I feel an unexpected sense of distance. It shows up in small ways, in the habits I've picked up abroad.

I greet bus drivers or shop staff, often to visible surprise. It's a reminder that I no longer move in the same social rhythm.

Now, after building my own family, sharing daily routines, and caring for our cat, I feel I have a home. Its location matters less than the stability and emotional safety it provides. This hasn't weakened my bond with my parents; if anything, it's made it healthier and more grounded.

Having lived long-term in two countries, I carry both. China shaped my instincts — how I think, relate, and find comfort — while France shaped my self-worth and independence.

Do you have a story to share about living abroad? Contact the editor at akarplus@businessinsider.com.