I tried to build a life in Thailand as a foreigner — here’s how the system pushed me out
Justin Brown
April 11, 2025
ED: Interesting article which I think will resonate with most of us who have lived in Thailand for some time.
The first time I landed in Bangkok, the air hit me like a warm, damp embrace—thick with diesel, jasmine, and the sizzle of street-side pad kra pao.
I was a solo traveler then, wide-eyed and restless, chasing the raw pulse of a place that felt worlds apart from the sterile grids of my past.
Thailand hooked me instantly: the golden spires piercing the skyline, the monks in saffron robes gliding through dawn, the chaos of tuk-tuks weaving through sois.
Years later, I returned—not as a tourist, but as someone ready to build a life.
I’d been running a digital media business, quietly thriving, and saw Thailand as a place where I could blend ambition with a slower, richer existence.
Chiang Mai called loudest, with its misty mountains and old-town charm, a spot where I could work from a teakwood desk and dream of permaculture plots in the hills. I arrived with an employment visa in hand, a two-year ticket to explore this vision, and a heart full of respect for a country I’d come to adore.
But as the months unfolded, I learned something profound: Thailand’s system, one I deeply admire, wasn’t built for me to stay. It’s a system that preserves something rare and vital, a cultural fortress in a globalized world—and while it pushed me out, it also led me to Singapore, where I could chase the integration and fulfillment I craved.
My early days in Chiang Mai were electric. I settled into a rented house near the Ping River, its wooden floors creaking underfoot, its windows framing views of Doi Suthep’s forested slopes.
I’d secured my employment visa through my business—a small but growing operation that let me work legally, no border runs required—and threw myself into life here.
Mornings began with the clatter of noodle carts and the hum of monks chanting; afternoons melted into Thai language lessons, where I wrestled with tones until my teacher’s nods turned approving.
I wasn’t naive—I knew Thailand had rules, boundaries for foreigners like me—but I figured patience and effort could bridge the gap. I wasn’t here to demand or complain; I wanted to contribute, to weave myself into this tapestry of a place. And for a while, it felt possible. I’d sip coffee with local artists in Nimmanhaemin, swap stories with vendors at the Sunday market, hike trails near Pai where the air tasted of pine and possibility.
But slowly, subtly, the system revealed itself—not as a wall to climb, but as a riverbed guiding me elsewhere.
Thailand’s visa policies were my first lesson in this gentle redirection. I’d arrived on that employment visa, tied to my business, which gave me a stable foothold for two years. It wasn’t the flimsy tourist visa I’d used on earlier trips, nor the education visa I’d once considered, studying Thai to extend my stay. This was a legitimate pass, proof I was here to work and build.
