Generations Abroad Media (GAM)

I didn’t expect Taipei to change me.

I came for a short exchange program -six weeks squeezed perfectly between graduation and my first full-time job.
I packed lightly, convinced it would be just another trip. A fun detour. A city to check off the list.

But on my second evening, after wandering without a plan, I found myself on the top of Elephant Mountain right at sunset.

The sky shifted in slow motion - orange melting into pink, pink melting into lavender, lavender fading into a shade I can only describe as “quiet joy.”
Taipei 101 glowed like a lantern.
People around me whispered, held hands, exhaled.

I stood there, absolutely still.

And something inside me, something tight and hurried, then loosened.

What started as an accident became a ritual.

I went back the next day.
And the next.
Soon, watching the sunset became my daily appointment - the one thing I refused to cancel, no matter how chaotic my schedule.

Each evening painted a different version of the city:

- Day 1: gold, warm, forgiving
- Day 2: lavender, gentle as a lullaby
- Day 3: silver streaks slicing through storm clouds
- Day 4: muted rose, soft like a promise
- Day 5: brilliant orange that lit up the whole sky
- Day 6: pale blue fading into stillness
- Day 7: a burning red farewell

What I didn’t realize at first was that I wasn’t just watching the sky change.
I was watching myself change.

On Day 4, I met the man with the tripod.

He was older, wearing a well-loved bucket hat, adjusting his camera like he’d done it for years.

Noticing I was struggling with my phone angles, he smiled and said:
“Sunsets are patient teachers.”

I laughed and asked what he meant.

He said,
“Most people only look when the sky is dramatic.
But the quiet sunsets?
The cloudy ones?
Those are the ones that teach you to stay.”

That line stayed with me.

Because I had spent so much of my early twenties chasing “beautiful moments” — achievements, milestones, the next impressive thing — that I forgot life also happens in the simple, the steady, the unremarkable.

The sunsets reminded me that not everything meaningful arrives loudly.

Some things calm you into clarity.

By Day 6, Taipei no longer felt like a foreign city.

I could order scallion pancakes without stumbling.
I memorized which MRT line took me home.
I recognized shopkeepers who nodded kindly when I passed.

I felt held gently, without demand.

By the last evening, I climbed the mountain earlier than usual. The sky exploded into deep red, as if gifting me one final painting.

I whispered,
“Thank you,”
to the city, the sky, the version of myself who finally slowed down.

The sunsets taught me something simple and grown-up:

Clarity doesn't always come from thinking harder.
Sometimes it comes from being still long enough to notice the world softening around you.

Now, back home, I try to keep that ritual alive.
I look up more.
Pause more.
Let the sky end the day for me instead of my inbox.

And whenever life feels too loud, I think of Taipei’s seven sunsets —
how each one told me,
quietly but clearly:

You’re allowed to rest.
You’re allowed to change.
You’re allowed to begin again.