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| The weight of a kilo: Sometimes, the simplest errand is the hardest lesson. |
Last week, I went to the market to buy vegetables. Simple thing. Something I have done a thousand times in my life. In my village, I knew the price of everything. I knew the sellers. I knew how to ask for a little extra, how to smile, how to walk away if the price was too high.
Here, I stood in front of the carrots and forgot the Dutch word for "kilogram."
The woman behind the counter looked at me. Waiting. I opened my mouth, and nothing came. Not because I did not know the word. Because my brain froze, the way it does sometimes when I am tired, when I am rushed, when I am suddenly aware that I am the only brown face in the line, the only one who does not belong.
"Twee wortels," I finally said. Two carrots. Not what I wanted. But the words came out, and she nodded, and I paid, and I walked home with two carrots when I needed a kilo.
That is what it is like. Living in a country that is not yours. Not the big things. Not the dramatic moments. The small ones. The carrots. The bus tickets. The letters that arrive in the mail and sit on the table for days because you are afraid of what they might say and you are not sure you will understand.
The Feeling of Being "Not From Here"
I have lived in many countries. Singapore, South Korea, London, Portugal, Denmark, now Belgium. I have learned to adapt. I have learned to find my way. But I have never learned to stop feeling like a visitor.
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| When the brain freezes: The jumble of a language that is still finding its way to the tongue. |
There is a weight to being the one who speaks slowly. Who pauses before answering. Who says the wrong word and watches the other person's face shift from confusion to patience to something that might be pity.
In my Dutch class, I am the oldest. The slowest. The one who asks the same question twice because the first time, I did not understand the answer. I sit at the back sometimes, watching the younger students laugh and talk in easy sentences, and I feel my age. Not in years. In exhaustion. In the distance between where I am and where I want to be.
At work, I am the one who smiles when I do not understand. Who nods when I am not sure. Who lets the conversation move on without me because asking for clarification feels like admitting failure.
This is not self-pity. This is just what it is. To live in a country that is not yours is to be constantly aware of yourself. To think before you speak. To measure your words. To feel, every day, that you are not quite enough.
The Small Struggles People Don't See
No one tells you about the forms.
When you move to a new country, the bureaucracy is endless. Papers to fill. Documents to submit. Deadlines to meet. Every word in a language you are still learning. Every question a potential trap.
I remember the first time I received a letter from my son's school. A single page. Official font. Words I had never seen before. I sat at the kitchen table for an hour with my phone, translating each sentence, still not sure I understood. I signed nothing. I waited for my wife to come home. I let her read it. I let her tell me it was nothing important. Just a reminder about school photos.
But the fear was real. The fear of making a mistake. Of missing something. Of being the parent who does not understand, who cannot help, who is failing before he even begins.
Phone calls are worse. There is no time to translate. No face to read. Just a voice, fast, asking questions, waiting for answers. I avoid phone calls. I let my wife make them. I tell myself it is because she is better at Dutch. But the truth is I am afraid. Afraid of sounding stupid. Afraid of not being understood. Afraid of being that man, the one who cannot even make a phone call.
These are the struggles no one sees. Not the big sacrifices. The small humiliations. The daily reminder that you are not from here, you will never be from here, and everyone knows it.
The Invisible Loneliness
I am not alone. I have a wife. Two sons. Friends from class. Colleagues at work. But there is a loneliness that lives inside me that no one sees.
It is not the loneliness of being by yourself. It is the loneliness of not being understood. Of making a joke that no one gets. Of referencing something from your childhood and watching blank faces. Of realizing that the person you are talking to has never heard of your village, your river, the mountain you grew up under.
I miss simple conversations. The kind where you do not have to think. Where the words come without effort. Where you can be funny, or sad, or quiet, and everyone understands.
I miss my father's voice. Not the sound of it. The ease of it. The way we can sit in silence for ten minutes and it means nothing, and it means everything. Here, silence is awkward. Here, I am always performing. Always trying. Always measuring.
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| The landscape I carry inside: A quiet morning in the hills of Nepal. |
Some nights, after the children sleep, I sit in the kitchen with cold tea and scroll through photos from Nepal. Not the big ones. The ordinary ones. The dusty road. The buffalo. My father's hands. And I feel an ache that has no name. Not homesickness. Something quieter. Something that does not go away.
The Responsibility
But I cannot stop. I cannot give up. That is not who I am.
My sons are growing here. They speak Dutch better than I ever will. They will not struggle with forms and phone calls. They will not feel like visitors. That is my work. That is what I am building.
My father did not cross oceans. He never left the village. But he carried the same weight. The weight of building something for the next generation. Of doing the hard work so his children could have something better.
I think of him now, 75 years old, sitting on his veranda, waiting for my call. He never asks if I am struggling. He never asks if I am lonely. He just asks: "Kasto cha, babu?" How are you, son? And I say "Thikai chu, buba." I am fine, father. Because I am. Not because it is easy. Because it is worth it.
The Slow Change
It happens slowly. So slowly you almost do not notice.
Yesterday, I went to the market again. The same woman. The same carrots. This time, I said "Een kilo wortels, alstublieft." A kilo of carrots, please. She smiled. Not a big smile. Just a small one. But she smiled. And I walked home with a kilo. Not two.
Small things. But they add up.
I understand the newsletters now. Most of them. I answered the phone last week. A wrong number, but I answered. I said "Sorry, verkeerd nummer" and hung up. My wife laughed. She said "You are becoming Belgian." I laughed too. But inside, something shifted.
Something shifted - a quiet realization that the mountain I grew up under was getting further away, but the ground beneath my feet in Brugge was finally starting to hold me."
I am not becoming Belgian. I will never be Belgian. But I am becoming someone who can live here. Who can function here. Who can build a life here.
That is enough. That is more than enough.
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| Building a life in Brugge: Finding the beauty in the slow, steady rhythm of a new city. |
The Truth
Here is what I have learned, after all these years, after all these countries:
You may never feel fully from here. And that is okay.
Home is not a place where you belong. Home is what you build. Every day. In the small moments. In the carrots. In the phone calls. In the letters you translate. In the language you learn, one word at a time.
I will always miss my village. I will always miss the ease of being understood. I will always carry Nepal in my heart, the way you carry a photograph of someone you love.
But I am here. In Brugge. In this apartment. With my wife. My sons. My Dutch book. My pressure cooker hissing on the stove.
This is my home. Not because I belong. Because I built it.
What You Will Learn
If you are reading this and you are living in a country that is not yours, I want you to know:
It is okay to feel lost. It is okay to struggle. It is okay to miss where you came from.
You are not alone. There are millions of us, all over the world, standing in markets, avoiding phone calls, translating letters, trying to belong.
You are growing. Even when it feels like you are standing still. Every word you learn. Every call you make. Every form you fill. These are not small things. These are the bricks of your new life.
Do not compare your progress to others. Do not measure yourself by the fluency you have not reached. Measure yourself by the days you did not give up. By the times you tried. By the small victories that no one sees.
You are building something. For yourself. For your children. For the people who will come after you.
That is not failure. That is everything.
A Request
I want to hear from you.
Are you living in a country that is not yours? What are your small struggles? Your quiet victories? Your moments of loneliness and your moments of hope?
Share in the comments below. Your story might be exactly what someone else needs to hear today.
Because we are all in this together. All learning. All struggling. All building homes in places we never expected to be.
Closing
Tonight, I will call my father. He will ask how I am. I will say I am fine. Because I am. Not because it is easy. Because I am learning. Slowly. Quietly. One word at a time.
My sons are sleeping. One in his cot, small hands curled. One in his bed, dreaming in Dutch. They do not know that their father sometimes feels like a visitor. They only know that he is here. That he is home.
That is what I am building. Not a country. A home.
And one day, when they are grown, they will look back and understand. Not the struggle. But the love. The quiet, steady work of a father who came from somewhere else and made a life for them.
That is enough. That is more than enough.
With love,
-Bitty
🙏❤️
One word. One day. One home. You are building it.
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