I came for what was meant to be a short winter escape for just two months. I had a suitcase, a Kindle, and a vague idea that I’d write poems and learn how to cook green curry. But something shifted. Life here is less performative - no one asks about your title. There’s space for silence and stillness - two things I’d nearly lost in Germany. By the time I flew home, I was already checking for long-term visas.

A 14-year-old student bowed after class and said, “You are like my grandma, but cooler.” I pretended to act offended and told him I’d revoke his homework exemption. We both laughed. But that moment stayed with me, not because of the compliment, but because it told me I was seen, understood, and appreciated in a place far from home. For a teacher, that's everything.

I was most surprised by how much importance is placed on saving face, not just by students, but among teachers, administrators, everyone. I once gently corrected a student’s pronunciation in front of the class, and the poor boy didn’t return for three days. In Germany, we’re brutally direct and feedback is seen as essential. But here, you have to wrap criticism like a gift: soft, respectful, and private. It taught me a new form of diplomacy, one I wish I’d known earlier in my career.

I’d shift the focus from memorization to actual communication. My students can recite grammar rules better than most native speakers but ask them to describe their weekend or express an opinion, and they freeze. I think that’s a shame, because they have opinions, they just haven’t been given safe space to explore language freely. I also wish there was more trust placed in foreign teachers as collaborators, rather than ornaments.

They think I’m strict, but fair. Maybe a little quirky. They imitate my accent behind my back and I caught them once. I joined in and made them laugh, and from that moment they relaxed. I think they appreciate that I don’t expect perfection, only effort. One wrote in a feedback card, “Teacher Ursula makes my brain sweat, but in a nice way.” That felt like the right kind of legacy.

“Mai pen rai, cha-cha dai.” It means “No problem, you can go slowly.” I use it with students who feel nervous speaking. I learned it from a young monk I met at a temple language exchange group. He was 17, and he taught me more about patience than any workshop ever has.

I used to panic. Now I pause. I’ve learned that misunderstandings are inevitable, especially when you're living inside another culture. I try not to take it personally. A smile, some patience, and the humility to ask again, or explain differently, usually smooths things over. Sometimes it even builds trust. We forget how powerful it is to say, “I don’t understand, can you help me?”

That you will not be the hero of the story and that’s okay. Teaching in Thailand requires patience, adaptability, and the ability to laugh at yourself. If you expect structure, timelines, and clear communication, you’ll be frustrated. But if you embrace the unpredictability - the power cuts, the schedule changes, the last-minute assemblies - you’ll find joy in the absurdity of it all. And you'll grow.

Yes, my neighbor Nid. She’s a retired nurse who speaks very little English, but somehow we have the most meaningful conversations. She brings me sticky rice and jackfruit, and I help her fill out forms. One evening, we sat watching a thunderstorm and she said, in Thai, “You are like a big tree, calm and good for shade.” I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I made tea.

A tall, sweet iced coffee from a tiny café run by two teenagers with no sense of urgency, followed by an hour in my hammock listening to Bach or some German detective podcast. It doesn’t solve everything, but it makes the world feel manageable again.

Autumn. That moment when you can smell the cold coming in the wind, and everyone starts wearing scarves and baking too much. It’s a sensory thing. Thailand has color and heat, but I miss the slow, quiet melancholy of a German fall.

It’s the first place I’ve lived where I feel no pressure to prove anything. I’m allowed to just be a person.