The Myth of the Fresh Start
When we move abroad, we often imagine we’re reinventing ourselves. A blank slate, a new chapter. But the irony is: we bring ourselves along—our old beliefs, buried grief, self-doubts, childhood habits, and invisible wounds. No extra baggage fee for those.
Back home, distractions were everywhere: friends, work, routines. Abroad, those familiar scaffolds fall away. And what’s left? Silence. Space. And sometimes… echoes.
The questions we’ve long avoided start whispering:
What do I actually want?
Who am I when nobody knows me?
Am I lonely—or just finally quiet enough to realise I’ve been lonely for a long time?
One client moved from Asia to Germany, hoping for freedom and a fresh start. Instead of feeling liberated, he woke up each day anxious, haunted by an inner voice saying, “You won’t perform, and you’ll fail again.” The move didn’t erase his old fears—it only made them louder. In therapy, he came to realise that it wasn’t the new city causing his sadness, but the unresolved doubts and family dynamics he had brought with him. He wasn’t failing—he was finally starting to listen to himself.
This kind of discomfort can be unsettling, even frightening, but it can also be the doorway to something real.
When the Body Speaks
Peter Levine, who developed Somatic Experiencing, says the body remembers everything. Bessel van der Kolk puts it simply: the body keeps the score. What we label as “sadness” might be the resurfacing of old, unprocessed tension—truths we haven’t let ourselves feel.
Moving to a new environment strips away distractions and gives those truths room to surface. That can feel like disorientation, fatigue, even quiet despair. But it’s not always pathology—it might be a signal. A message. Something inside saying:
Now that you’ve stopped running, can we talk?
Sometimes we try to treat this unease with action—joining more meetups, taking language classes, filling our schedules to the brim. And while there’s value in connection and structure, these efforts can also become ways to avoid listening.
“But I Came Here to Be Happy!”
Of course you did. We all do. But maybe the version of happiness we were chasing wasn’t the whole story.
"The purpose of art is to prepare a person for death."
Filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky said that. It’s a bit dramatic, but I take it to mean that real growth asks us to let go of illusions. Including the one that geography alone can heal our deeper pain.
Therapy often works the same way—it gently unravels the stories that no longer serve us. It invites us to face what’s been waiting below the surface. It’s not always comfortable, but it’s profoundly human. And like art, therapy doesn’t offer tidy solutions. It offers companionship in the not-knowing.
The Grief We Don’t Talk About
Something many expats feel—but rarely name—is grief. Not dramatic, tear-streaked grief, but a quieter kind: the kind that shows up when you miss your favourite bread, or when your jokes don’t land, or when no one around knows the version of you that made it through your hardest times.
This grief isn’t just about homesickness—it’s about identity loss. You might not even want to go back, and yet still feel an ache for a life that made more sense. The sound of your native language drifting across a café, or the smell of a familiar detergent in a supermarket aisle, can crack you open.
Suddenly, you’re in two places at once—here, and there. Present, and grieving.
Nostalgia can be a kind of homesickness for our former selves. For who we were before we were stretched by unfamiliarity. And that’s not weakness—it’s an echo of love, of meaning. It reminds us that we’ve lived, attached, risked, and left something behind.
The Real Roots of Disconnection
Many expats I work with describe a loss of belonging. But as we explore more deeply, we often find that feeling didn’t start with the move. It began much earlier—through subtle emotional disconnection, unmet needs, or family roles that never really fit.
One client who moved to Portugal from another European country, often talks about feeling displaced—not just because of the new language or culture, but because of a deeper, ongoing sense of not quite belonging anywhere. In therapy, we explored how this feeling didn’t start with his move; it had been with him for years, tied to unmet emotional needs and family expectations. The challenge wasn’t just adapting to Portugal—it was learning to find a sense of home within himself.
Carl Rogers believed that under the right conditions—empathy, authenticity, acceptance—people naturally move toward growth. But that movement often begins with discomfort. Disintegration. Grief. Or just a feeling of being deeply tired. And that, too, is part of becoming.
The Cultural Piece
Adjusting to a new culture carries real challenges: language barriers, bureaucratic headaches, social isolation, and moments of invisibility. You might feel infantilised by simple tasks like opening a bank account or explaining yourself at a pharmacy. Even confident, competent people can feel like shadows of themselves.
But there’s something deeper underneath: a cultural disorientation that can stir old identity wounds. When we’re no longer mirrored by a familiar context, we start to ask: Without that reflection, do I still exist in the same way? For those who’ve spent a lifetime performing or adapting, this absence can be freeing—or terrifying.
And in that vacuum, you might finally notice how exhausted you are from trying to be someone.
Listening to What’s Real
In my work, I’ve come to see that what we call “depression” is often a signal. A soul-whisper asking:
Who are you, really, when no one’s watching?
When you’re not performing for your old culture, not playing a role—what’s left?
These moments aren’t failures. They’re thresholds. Invitations to return to something honest and alive.
Beyond the Glossy Version of Happiness
Modern culture tells us happiness comes from achievement, productivity, and aesthetics. But most people don’t want perfection. They want connection—to themselves, to others, to something real. That kind of connection doesn’t come from forcing ourselves to “be fine.” It comes from presence. And presence grows in the soil of honest feeling.
Often, clients say, “I shouldn’t feel like this.” And I gently remind them: feelings don’t follow rules. They arrive when they need to. And when we stop resisting them, they often lead us somewhere we’ve always needed to go.
Things That Might Help (Besides a Language Class)
- Don’t rush to fix the sadness. Sit with it. Be curious. Ask what it’s trying to tell you.
- Talk to someone who won’t try to fix you. Not a cheerleader, but a calm witness—a therapist, a thoughtful friend, someone who can hold silence.
- Notice what feels real. A sentence in your journal. A walk by the sea. A memory that makes you ache. Follow those gently.
- Let your body speak. Not to perform, but to listen. Sometimes movement—or stillness—says what words can’t.
Remember you’re not alone. These feelings aren’t unique. There’s a quiet global chorus of people sitting in unfamiliar apartments, wondering why their new dream life doesn’t feel like home.
Siberian Truth
I was born in Siberia, where the winters are long and honest. They don’t pretend to be summer. And I think our inner lives deserve that same kind of honesty.
So if you're feeling lost or disconnected, maybe it’s not a sign you’re doing something wrong. Maybe it’s a quiet knock from within.
You Are Still Becoming
Moving abroad is often idealised as a leap toward freedom. But real freedom doesn’t always feel good at first. Sometimes it means standing still in discomfort, no longer numbing or rushing or pretending.
It means finally being honest—with yourself.
And maybe, just maybe, that quiet feeling isn’t a sign of failure—it’s your soul catching up to the life you’ve created. You’re not failing at being an expat. You’re unfolding into someone more whole. And that, in all its uncertainty, is something worth staying curious about.