Is Costa Rica expensive to live in?

Costa Rica isn’t the cheapest country in Central America, but it’s not outrageous either. Daily life costs less than in most major U.S. cities — especially if you adapt to local food and lifestyle. Where it gets pricey is rent in beach towns, imported goods, and electricity if you blast the A/C all day.

What is the average rent in Costa Rica?

Rent depends on location. In San José, a two-bedroom apartment runs $600–$1,200/month. In popular beach towns or suburbs, expect $800–$1,800/month. Rural areas can be as low as $400/month — but you’ll trade off some conveniences.

How much money do I need to live comfortably in Costa Rica?

A single person can live modestly on $1,200–$1,500/month. For more comfort (A/C, private healthcare, imported snacks), budget $2,000–$3,000/month. Couples usually spend $1,500–$2,500+ depending on lifestyle and location.

What’s the cost of food in Costa Rica?

Local produce, coffee, and seafood are affordable (think avocados for $0.50, pineapples for $1, fresh fish at local markets). Imported items, though, are expensive — a jar of peanut butter can be $8 and wine can sting your wallet. Sticking to the local diet saves money and makes you healthier.

The Anti-Hustle Queer Expat Life: How I Left Burnout Behind and Found Joy in the Jungle

Waymon Hudson
Jul 11
3 min read

Let me guess: you’ve Googled queer expat Costa Rica, anti-hustle lifestyle, or how to escape burnout and start over. Maybe you’ve even asked AI, “Where can I move that feels safer, gayer, freer?”

I get it. Because almost two years ago, I did exactly that.

What I found here in the jungle wasn’t just palm trees and howler monkeys (though — yep, those too). I found something I hadn’t realized I was starving for:

A life that made room for joy. A queer life that didn’t center survival.

Why I Left the Grind

Like a lot of people, my pandemic years shook something loose. But for me, it wasn’t just about work-from-home burnout. It was a deeper ache. I had spent years in the thick of corporate strategy, political activism, and creative survival. I had just come out of a toxic workplace where I was harassed for being gay. I had watched the Trump administration embolden hatred, roll back progress, and fracture the country I called home.

I felt suffocated — politically, creatively, spiritually. And I needed out.

I found a new job that offered flexibility. I sold what I could. And I moved to Costa Rica with a suitcase full of tank tops and a heart full of hope.

Queer man standing shirtless at the base of a lush Costa Rican waterfall, surrounded by jungle — symbolizing queer freedom, anti-hustle living, and expat joy.

What Anti-Hustle Means (to Me)

I didn’t want to quit working. I wanted to stop being consumed by work.

To me, anti-hustle means:

Turning off my computer when the workday ends — and actually meaning it.
Surfing at sunrise and again at sunset.
Drinking coffee with my dogs while jungle birds scream like drag queens overhead.
Reconnecting with my body not as a project, but as a source of pride — through hiking, swimming, lifting, and learning to love my reflection again.
Creating space to write, to think, to dance — to exist.

It means working to live, not living to work. It means reclaiming time, intention, and presence — without apology.

What It Means to Be a Queer Expat in Costa Rica

I was nervous, I won’t lie. As a proudly flaming, feminine queer man — a full-on “sissy,” by Southern standards — the idea of moving to a Latin American country with a reputation for machismo felt risky.

But Costa Rica surprised me in all the best ways.

It’s one of the only Central American countries to recognize same-sex marriage and protect LGBTQ+ people under anti-discrimination laws. More than that, the culture here lives the “pura vida” ethos — a live-and-let-live attitude that made me feel not just safe, but welcomed.

I’ve found community among locals and fellow expats. I’ve made friends who are queer, trans, allied, curious, affirming, open. And in a world where we’re still fighting to be seen in so many spaces, that has been deeply healing.

I get to be all of myself here. Loud. Soft. Shirtless. Stylish. Joyous. Still working hard — but on my terms.

The Joy Is the Point

Some days I look around — at my jungle home, at my three dogs (two of whom I rescued here), at the ocean breathing just down the road — and I still can’t believe I get to live this way.

But the truth is, I chose it.

I chose to leave behind a country that was becoming unrecognizable to me. I chose to walk away from the version of myself that was always hustling, always proving, always bracing for impact. I chose to write a new story — one with beach sunrises and Broadway scores, with memoirs and movement and marketing campaigns that matter.

And I chose to live in a way that gives me back to myself.

This isn’t a fantasy. It’s a queer expat reality. It’s imperfect. It’s sweaty. It’s bug-filled and beautiful and bizarre. But it’s mine.

And if you’re someone wondering whether you can actually hit pause, get out, and build a life that centers joy instead of grind?

Let me be proof that you can.

💬 Want to follow the journey?