When I returned from my Peace Corps service, America felt like a different world. It was no longer the home I had left behind. Friends and family were delighted to see me, but the connection we once shared felt distant. Conversations were a challenge. They talked about movies, clothes, jobs, and money while I sat quietly, overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of material things surrounding me.

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Sleeping in a bed was strange. After years on a firm mat, the softness felt foreign. The chill of air-conditioned rooms left me shivering, even at 80 degrees. And then, there were water fountains—I loved water fountains. Press a button, and out came clean, drinkable water. No boiling, no filtering, no waiting overnight for it to cool. Just water, pure and simple.

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The life I cherished in the village—slow, intentional, and centered on human connection—seemed to have no place here. In America, everything was about movement: going to work, school, and appointments—always going. And nearly every destination seemed tied to the pursuit of money. In the village, life wasn’t about money. It was about people.

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I often longed for Kiribati, where life revolved around shared meals, heartfelt conversations, and community bonds. Reverse culture shock crept in like a shadow, and most nights, I cried myself to sleep, aching to return to the place that had become my true home.

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Like water, Kiribati gave me life. It taught me—an American raised in a land of plenty—what truly matters: simplicity, connection, and the art of living in harmony with others.