I still remember the moment I first stepped off the plane in Hong Kong: the humidity clung to me like a second skin, and the neon lights gave the city a perpetual glow that felt both electrifying and daunting. I was in my late twenties, embarking on what I told myself was a two-year stint in investment banking—though I would ultimately spend three transformative years in the heart of Asia’s financial powerhouse. Before landing in Hong Kong, I had built a modest but solid foundation in Singapore, diligently saving a portion of my salary and investing in a small portfolio of exchange-traded funds. But nothing prepared me for how quickly money could move in Hong Kong—both in and out of my pocket. The city may be famous for dim sum and a skyline that lights up the night, but it’s also known for its high-stakes finance industry and an undeniable cost of living that can be one of the steepest in the world.
Those early days found me in an intense balancing act: trying to prove myself at a major financial institution while navigating an entirely new culture and corporate hierarchy. The long hours meant I’d often leave the office only to see that the sun had already set over the harbor. In many ways, the job became my entire life. When I wasn’t working, I was networking, pouring myself into every coffee chat, after-work drinks, and weekend brunch with fellow finance professionals. At first, I spent money almost as fast as I earned it—tempted by cocktails at high-rise bars, extravagant dinners with clients, and the occasional shopping spree. But deep down, I sensed that this wasn’t sustainable. I needed a plan that would allow me to fully experience life in a vibrant city but still keep my financial goals on track.
I soon developed a habit of deliberately automating my savings. The moment my paycheck landed in my account, a set amount was automatically funneled into investments—no questions asked and no temptations to reallocate that money elsewhere. Looking back, it was one of the most important financial decisions I made, because it took away the mental strain of deciding how much to save month after month. I focused on broad-based index funds, predominantly in the U.S. and Asian markets, but also kept a portion of my money in fixed-income products. My rationale was that I wanted growth with a measure of stability, recognizing that I had entered a field notorious for its cyclical booms and busts.
Life in Hong Kong was intense, but it gave me an insider’s view of Asia’s financial dynamism. To stand out in that environment, I had to pick up the local language nuances. Even though English is widely spoken in the finance sector, understanding local Cantonese phrases and cultural references made networking and relationship-building much smoother. And as I immersed myself deeper into this world, I realized that many colleagues around me lived in a perpetual cycle of high stress, high spending, and an unspoken expectation that one must look and act the part to succeed. There was a certain pressure to buy designer suits, dine at exclusive restaurants, and jet off for luxurious weekend getaways—lifestyle inflation is a very real phenomenon in Hong Kong. But what helped me keep my lifestyle somewhat anchored was the firm belief that my ultimate goal was financial freedom, not just an impressive job title or a walk-in closet full of expensive clothes.
The concept of the 4% rule—a guideline suggesting that if you withdraw 4% of your investment portfolio annually, there’s a good chance your nest egg will last indefinitely—resonated deeply with me. It offered a simple, digestible pathway to financial independence. I knew that building up a large enough portfolio to safely withdraw 4% would require discipline, but I also knew that every bonus and salary increment would help accelerate the timeline. So I set my magic number, the annual amount I hoped to live on comfortably in the future, multiplied it by 25 (the inverse of 4%), and pinned it as my long-term target. I tracked my progress meticulously, going back to spreadsheets on Sunday mornings with a cup of tea in hand, measuring how each month’s contributions and market performance got me closer to that goal.
It was around my second year in Hong Kong that I felt the itch to move again. Not because I was dissatisfied with the city—I truly loved the energy, the communal culture of late-night dinners, and even the breakneck pace of work—but I wanted to deepen my regional expertise. A new opportunity arose that took me to Tokyo, another financial epicenter but with a distinctly different rhythm. Where Hong Kong was fast and loud, Tokyo was calm, orderly, and more traditional in its corporate and social protocols. Stepping into Tokyo’s world of finance felt like entering a refined, carefully choreographed dance, complete with bowing greetings and punctual schedules that sometimes felt like clockwork. It was a place where business cards were exchanged with reverence, and entire deals could hinge on the nuances of proper etiquette.
The transition wasn’t as simple as just hopping on a plane. Learning to operate in a Japanese corporate environment meant paying close attention to cultural cues—everything from how you address your superiors to the way you interact with clients outside the office. Those were the years that taught me the power of listening more than speaking. I began to see how crucial it was to understand not just the technical aspects of a deal, but also the human elements that can make or break a relationship. Building trust with Japanese clients required patience, empathy, and consistency. After all, finances are not just about numbers; they’re about people’s aspirations, fears, and life goals.
Tokyo also challenged me to adapt my personal finance strategies. The cost of living was high, just like in Hong Kong, but the temptations to overspend came in different forms—Michelin-starred sushi bars, weekend trips to onsen resorts, and lavish department stores with every luxury item imaginable. Once again, I leaned on automated savings and used my knowledge of the 4% rule as a north star. Sometimes, after a particularly grueling workweek, I’d treat myself to a wonderful kaiseki meal, but I balanced it by cutting back on less meaningful expenses. I found cheaper alternatives for my everyday lunches, often grabbing a simple bowl of ramen or a bento box from a convenience store instead of a pricey sit-down lunch. I also learned to love secondhand kimono shops and thrift boutiques that offered a taste of Japanese fashion without the exorbitant price tags.
During those three years in Tokyo, I expanded my investment portfolio more aggressively. I took calculated risks—exploring Japanese equity funds and dabbling in certain Southeast Asian stocks, knowing that the region was poised for growth. I also started investing more heavily in real estate investment trusts (REITs) that focused on Asian commercial properties, leveraging my insight into the region’s booming real estate markets. These choices weren’t made haphazardly. They stemmed from a blend of my own analysis, countless hours of reading annual reports, and seeking expert opinions over lunches and coffee chats. That’s another crucial lesson I learned along the way: your network can be a goldmine of wisdom, especially when it’s global and filled with professionals who understand markets in different cultural contexts.
At times, the pace of my life felt relentless, and I questioned whether I should slow down. Yet each time I reviewed my net worth progress, I felt a renewed sense of motivation. It wasn’t just about hitting a certain number; it was about buying myself the freedom to choose my next move without money dictating the decision. On late-night calls with close friends back in Singapore, I’d talk about the eventual day I’d return home. I wanted to come back on my own terms, not because I had to. That dream—and the knowledge that it was within reach if I stayed disciplined—kept me pushing forward, even on days when the office seemed like a never-ending loop of spreadsheets, phone calls, and deal after deal.
Perhaps the most important shift in my mentality happened as I was nearing the end of my third year in Tokyo. I realized that financial freedom wasn’t just about frugality or discipline; it was also about learning to say no when things didn’t align with my values or my longer-term plans. By that point, I was receiving job offers that promised eye-watering salaries and bonuses, but I recognized that chasing titles and paychecks might trap me in a cycle of endless ambition that could easily unravel the progress I’d already made. My portfolio was robust enough that I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, but I also knew that achieving lasting financial freedom depended on my ability to protect my mental and physical well-being.
When I finally decided to return to Singapore, it felt like a full-circle moment. I was heading back to the place I called home, but I was returning as someone with a decade of exposure to some of Asia’s most influential financial markets. More importantly, I was coming back on my own terms, backed by a portfolio that I estimated would support my desired lifestyle if I withdrew about 4% annually. That number hadn’t come out of thin air—it was the result of years of consistent saving, smart investing, and mindful spending, all anchored by the 4% rule. It’s worth noting that the rule is a guideline, not a guarantee. Market downturns can happen at any time, and 4% might be too aggressive in certain economic climates. Yet for me, it served as a dependable benchmark for planning.
With the cushion I had built, I felt a certain lightness that I’d never experienced before. I took a break from the corporate grind to travel across Southeast Asia, reconnect with old friends, and simply reacquaint myself with the city I had left behind. After a few months of recharging, I started writing for DMNews.com, pouring my experiences into columns that blend market insights with the personal challenges of navigating Asia’s corporate world as a woman. While I no longer deal with the constant demands of managing portfolios for clients or working on large-scale mergers and acquisitions, I’ve discovered a new sense of satisfaction in sharing the lessons I learned.
One of the most important lessons I’ve carried forward is that financial freedom doesn’t necessarily mean you stop working. For me, it simply means you can choose what kind of work you do and how you spend your time. Instead of chasing the next promotion, I can channel my energy into projects that fulfill me creatively and intellectually. I can also be more selective about the clients I consult for, opting only for those who align with my principles and who genuinely appreciate the expertise I bring to the table.
Another key takeaway is the value of resilience and adaptability. Working in both Hong Kong and Tokyo tested my limits—culturally, professionally, and financially. But each challenge also opened new doors. In Hong Kong, I learned the power of speed, agility, and the significance of forging genuine, lasting professional relationships in a city obsessed with quick wins. In Tokyo, I honed the art of patience, meticulous planning, and respecting long-standing traditions in business. Both experiences taught me to be flexible and open-minded, traits that proved invaluable in investing as well. Markets shift, personal goals evolve, and what works in one phase of your life may not work in another. Sticking rigidly to a single formula can be detrimental. Instead, it’s about constant learning, recalibrating your strategies, and making sure you stay aligned with your long-term objectives.
Reflecting on my journey, I feel a sense of gratitude and amazement. Growing up in Singapore, I never imagined that I would one day craft a life where I could move countries so fluidly and return home with the financial comfort to choose my own path. It’s easy to be dazzled by the bright lights of places like Hong Kong and Tokyo, but the real test lies in maintaining your financial grounding while you immerse yourself in those exhilarating experiences. For me, it was always a delicate dance: enjoying the present while planning for the future, indulging occasionally but prioritizing long-term security.
When people ask me for advice, I often say that the first step to achieving financial freedom is clarity. Know exactly what financial freedom means to you. Write it down. Visualize the lifestyle you aim to have. Then measure how much it would cost annually, multiply that by 25, and use that figure as your rough target. Next, set up an automatic system that allows you to pay yourself first. Prioritize your savings and investment contributions before you even see your disposable income. If you’re living in a high-cost city, don’t beat yourself up for enjoying occasional luxuries—just make sure you balance it with consistent, long-term habits that contribute to your financial security. Seek out mentors and peers who can support, challenge, and inspire you. People often overlook how much influence your immediate circle can have on your spending and saving habits.
Finally, remember that money is just one aspect of the equation. The path to financial freedom is deeply entwined with personal growth, mental resilience, and emotional well-being. Take the time to explore your interests and nurture meaningful relationships. At the end of the day, your portfolio might grant you freedom, but it’s up to you to define what you do with that freedom.
Now that I’m settled back in Singapore, I occasionally find myself reminiscing about my time as an expat in Hong Kong and Tokyo. The scents, the sounds, the thrill of walking into skyscrapers that seemed to pulse with energy—those were unforgettable chapters of my life. But what’s most rewarding is knowing that those chapters also helped me build a foundation that lets me say yes or no to new opportunities on my own terms. Whenever someone asks me whether it was worth all the late nights, the relocations, and the sacrifices, I think about the sense of independence I carry with me now, the sense that I can shape my own destiny. My answer is always a confident, resounding yes.
