Transition, What Transition? Lessons from a Life on the Move

25 April 2025

This day, April 25, seven years ago, in 2018, I spent my first night in Beijing, with my two big luggages. It was my big migration to a foreign land. I was hired for a job based in this metropolitan. It was my biggest role ever – taking charge an American agency’s office in China as the country representative. It was an exciting leap into the unknown, and I took it with both arms wide open.

I remember that sense of anticipation clearly. The thrill of the new. I was stepping into a role with international scope —working with central office in the US, leading a team scattered across different countries, and navigating complex partnerships with Chinese counterparts during a time of growing geopolitical tension. It was also my most diverse team ever, and I loved that. The travel was intense, the learning curve steeper than anything I’d experienced. I was stretched in every direction.

But back then, I didn’t think of it as a transition. I thought of it as a new job. A bold move, sure, but still just the next chapter in a life I was shaping one decision at a time. It was only much later, when I learnt to reflect, that I realized what a massive shift it really was—not just professionally, but personally.

It wasn’t just the city or the job title that changed. It was me. I was learning to lead in ambiguity, to manage without precedent, to stay grounded while so much around me felt foreign. There were moments of fear and loneliness. There were doubts. I felt the weight of decisions, the pressure of visibility, the burden of being the “one in charge.” But I also felt alive. Challenged. Awake.

I’ve had many of these moments throughout my life. Moves that felt logical at the time, decisions I made independently, often without consulting anyone. I’ve walked away from jobs without a backup plan. I’ve taken sabbaticals. I’ve entered entirely new industries, not through headhunters or luck, but because I sought them out. Looking back, I see now that these weren’t just career moves. They were transitions – sometimes quiet, sometimes loud. And they changed me in ways I couldn’t see in the moment.

No one ever told me I was brave. No one warned me that I might be crazy either. But I’ve always trusted myself. I’ve always believed I could carry the consequences of my own decisions, as long as they didn’t harm others. That belief has been my compass. It still is.

We talk about resilience a lot these days – how to bounce back. But I’ve come to realise that resistance is often what stands in the way of growth. Transitions can be tough because they confront us with the unfamiliar. They shake up our sense of identity, challenge our routines, and force us to ask uncomfortable questions. But they also invite us to redefine what matters.

For years, I didn’t even know the word “transition” could apply to me. I thought transitions were for people facing loss, divorce, retirement. I didn’t see my own changes as worthy of that label. But now I know better. Transitions come in many forms – some dramatic, others subtle. And sometimes, we don’t realise we’re in one until long after the fact.

When I graduated from university, most of my peers followed the expected path: secure job, buy a car, start a family. I flew to India. I joined a year-long multicultural exchange program that brought together 50 or 60 people from all over the world. We lived, worked, partied, and travelled across India for months. It was my first taste of how vast and varied life could be. That experience cracked something open in me—a hunger to keep exploring, to stay curious, to build a life not by default, but by design.

Maybe I’m not good at staying still. Maybe I have what some call a transitory career path—frequent changes, varied roles, multiple industries. I used to joke about being a “rolling stone,” even telling a millennial once that rolling stones gather no moss. But I’ve come to appreciate the wisdom in that. Maybe moss isn’t the goal. Maybe movement is.

What I’ve learned is this: change doesn’t have to be something that happens to us. It can be something we invite. Something we shape. The trick is to stay alert to the moments that whisper, “You’re not growing anymore.” And then, to listen.

I didn’t always know what I was doing. I still don’t, a lot of the time. But I’ve stopped waiting for certainty before I move. I’ve learned that discomfort is a signal, not a stop sign. And I’ve come to trust that even the hardest transitions eventually make sense—if not in the moment, then in the mirror we hold up years later.