Finding My Rhythm: The Real Talk About Balancing Work and Studies as an International Student

Good morning. Today is different.

Two lives, one heart. The 4 hours and 45 minutes that lie between my morning tea in Belgium and my father’s afternoon in Nepal.

My son went to school. My wife went outside, some shopping, some fresh air, some time for herself. And me? I have the day off. No work. No classes. No plans. Just an empty apartment and a whole day stretching in front of me like a road I have not walked before.

I made tea, the way I always do. Sat by the window, the way I always do. But something felt different. The silence was deeper. The apartment felt bigger. My own breathing sounded louder.

For a moment, I did not know what to do with myself.

The Strange Feeling of Being Alone

When you are a parent, alone time becomes a memory. Something you had once, long ago, in another life. You get used to noise. Used to questions. Used to small hands reaching for you, small voices calling your name, small feet running through the apartment.

So when it suddenly stops, when the noise disappears and the small hands are elsewhere and the small voice is singing Dutch songs in a classroom far from here, you do not know what to do with the quiet.

I walked through the apartment like a guest in my own home. Looked at my son's toys scattered on the floor. Looked at the dishes from breakfast still in the sink. Looked at the chair where my wife usually sits, empty now.

And I felt something I did not expect. Not loneliness exactly. Something softer. Something like remembering who I was before I became someone's father, someone's husband, someone's everything.

The Kitchen Where Everything Happens

I ended up in the kitchen. Of course. The kitchen is where my life happens. Where I make tea. Where I cook dal. Where my son stands on a chair and tries to help. Where my wife and I sit after long days, not always talking, but always together.

Today, the kitchen was empty. Just me and the pressure cooker and the vegetables waiting to be cut.

I started cooking. Not because I was hungry. Because cooking is what I do when I do not know what else to do. My hands moved the way they always move. Cutting. Stirring. Tasting. The same movements my mother taught me, the same movements her mother taught her.

Wisdom in the kitchen. Learning that a full heart starts with small, ordinary moments—like the sound of a knife and the preparation of a meal.

And somewhere in the middle of cutting a potato, I understood something.

This is what my father felt. All those years in the village, raising me, working hard, providing. He must have had moments like this too. Moments when the house was quiet, when the work was done, when he was alone with his thoughts and his hands and his memories.

He never told me about those moments. Never said "sometimes I sit alone and think about my father." But I know he had them. Every parent does.

Now I am having mine.

The Things You Notice When You Are Alone

When the apartment is empty, you notice things you usually miss.

The way light moves across the floor, hour by hour, slow and patient.
The sounds the building makes, pipes humming, floors creaking, wind tapping at windows.
The photographs on the wall, the ones you walk past every day without really seeing.
The small scratch on the table where my son's toy car left its mark.
The crack in the ceiling that I keep meaning to fix but never do.

I noticed all of this today. And I realized: I live here. This is my home. This small apartment in a small city in a small country, so far from where I started. And somehow, without noticing, it has become mine.

Not just a place I sleep. Not just a roof over my head. Home. Real home. With scratches and cracks and memories built into every corner.

The strange beauty of an empty home. In the silence, I am not just a father or a husband—I am simply a person, noticing the light on the floor.

The Call I Almost Made

I picked up my phone to call my father. The way I do every evening. But it was only 10 in the morning here in Belgium. My father is in Nepal, and the time there is 4 hours and 45 minutes ahead. So while I was sitting in my quiet apartment with my cold tea, he was probably somewhere in the village, maybe in the farm, checking on the buffalo and goats, or walking somewhere with his slow, steady pace. Not sleeping. Never sleeping when there is work to do.

I put the phone down. I will call him tonight, when evening comes to Nepal and he is back in the house, sitting on the veranda the way he always sits, waiting for the day to end.

But I kept thinking about him. About his hands, probably rough with soil right now. About his voice, the one I have been hearing my whole life, the one that still says my name the same way. About the distance between us, 7,000 kilometers, 4 hours and 45 minutes, two completely different lives happening at the same time.

Here I was, alone in my kitchen, doing nothing special. There he was, somewhere in the village, doing everything that needs to be done. Same blood. Same heart. Different worlds.

What I Learned Today

I am still learning what this empty day means. Still figuring out how to be alone after years of never being alone.

But here is what I know so far:

Being alone is not the same as being lonely.
Silence is not empty. It is full of things you cannot hear when there is noise.
Your home holds your life in ways you do not notice until you are the only one there.
Your parents' moments of solitude were probably just like this, ordinary, quiet, full of ordinary thoughts about ordinary things.
And that is enough. That is more than enough.

The distance between us, between me and my father, between here and there, between this life and that one, does not erase the connection. If anything, it makes it clearer. I see him more now, from far away, than I ever did when I was close.

The Afternoon

The afternoon passed slowly. I finished cooking. Ate lunch by myself, which felt strange, eating without someone to talk to, without someone asking for more, without someone dropping food on the floor.

I washed the dishes. Put them away. Sat down again.

I thought about my son. What is he doing right now? Is he playing with friends? Is he learning something new? Does he miss me the way I miss him?

I thought about my wife. Is she enjoying her time alone? Does she feel the same strange mix of freedom and emptiness that I feel?

I thought about my father. Is he resting now, under a tree somewhere? Has he had his lunch? Does he think of me the way I think of him, across all this distance and time?

I thought about all the parents in the world, right now, having moments like this. Empty houses. Quiet kitchens. Ordinary afternoons. All of us connected by this strange experience of being alone after years of being needed every moment.

Roots that stretch across continents. A reminder of the village hills that shaped me, even as I build a new life in the quiet streets of Europe.

The Return

Then I heard it. The key in the lock. The door opening. My wife's voice, calling "I'm home." And behind her, smaller feet running, small voice shouting "Papa! Papa! Ik ben terug!"

I am back.

My son ran to me, arms open, face bright. He hugged my legs like I had been gone for years instead of hours. He started telling me about his day, too fast, too many details, Dutch and Nepali mixed together in a way only he understands.

My wife came in, smiled at me, put down her bags. The apartment filled with noise again. With life. With everything.

And I realized: this is the balance. Alone and together. Silence and noise. Empty and full.

Both are necessary. Both are gifts. Both are part of this one precious life.

What I Want You to Know

If you are reading this, and you have moments of being alone, whether you chose them or they chose you, know that they matter.

They are not empty time to fill.
They are not something to escape.
They are moments to notice. To feel. To be.

Notice the light on your floor.
Notice the sounds your home makes.
Notice the memories living in every corner.
Notice yourself, just being, without needing to do anything for anyone.

And if you have someone far away, a father, a mother, a child, a friend, know that the distance does not break the connection. It might even make it stronger. Four hours and 45 minutes ahead, my father is living his life. And tonight, I will hear his voice. And that will be enough.

When the noise returns, when the children come back, when the house fills again, when life resumes its usual chaos, carry this quiet with you.

It will make you a better parent. A better partner. A better human.

Because you cannot give what you do not have. And if you never sit in silence, never notice the ordinary, never feel your own presence, how can you be fully present for anyone else?

Tonight

Tonight, I will make dinner for my family. We will sit together, eat together, talk about small things. My son will make a mess. My wife will laugh. I will watch them both and feel full.

And later, when evening comes to Nepal, I will call my father. He will be sitting on his veranda, maybe, watching the sun go down over the hills. He will say "kasto cha, babu?" and I will say "thikai chu, buba." And we will talk about nothing important for a few minutes, and then we will hang up, and the distance will close just a little.

But I will also remember this day. This empty apartment. This quiet afternoon. This strange gift of being alone.

And I will be grateful for both.

For the noise and the silence.
For the together and the alone.
For the full house and the empty one.
For the 10 am here and the 2:45 pm there.
For the father in Nepal and the son in Belgium.

Both are teaching me. Both are shaping me. Both are part of becoming who I am.

A Request for You

Have you ever had a day like this? A day when the house was empty and you did not know what to do with yourself? A day when you noticed things you usually miss? A day when you thought about someone far away and felt the distance like a weight?

I would love to hear about it. Share your story in the comments below. Or just hold it in your heart, the way I hold mine.

Because we are all living these ordinary days. We are all having these quiet moments. We are all connected to people far away, across time zones and continents and lives.

And when we share, we remember: we are not alone in being alone.

With love,
-Bitty

🙏❤️

​If you enjoyed this reflection, explore the rest of my journey:

The Silent Theft: How Technology Is Quietly Stealing Our Memory Powers

The Invisible Threads That Shape Us: How Culture Becomes Our First Education

The Journey of Finding My Voice: Learning Portuguese in the Heart of Lisbon