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

This morning, I watched my son try to button his shirt.

Five years old. Small fingers. Small buttons. Small frustration growing in his eyes.

Sometimes, love means not helping. It is the patience of watching small fingers find their own way.

He struggled for two minutes. Three minutes. His breathing got heavier. His lip started to tremble. I sat on the edge of his bed, watching, saying nothing. Every part of me wanted to help. To reach over. To do it for him. To end his struggle.

But something held me back.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the last button slipped through. He looked up at me, face transformed. Not just relief. Pride. Real pride. The kind that comes from doing something hard all by yourself.

"Papa," he said. "Ik heb het gedaan."

I did it.

I pulled him close and kissed his head. And I thought: this is a lesson no one tells you. That sometimes, love means not helping. That patience is not just waiting. It is watching someone struggle and trusting they will find their way. No one told me that. I had to learn it, sitting on the edge of a small bed, watching small fingers fight small buttons.

Patience isn't taught; it is felt. When I was a child, my father never told me to be patient. He just was. Patient in ways I did not notice until I became a father myself. I remember him teaching me to ride a buffalo. I was scared. The animal was huge, its back broad and warm. My father walked beside me for an hour, saying nothing, just being there. Not rushing. Not pushing. Just walking. That is patience. Not a word. A presence.

Now I understand. When my son struggles with his blocks, when he builds and fails and builds again, I do not rush to fix it. I sit. I watch. I trust. I am learning that Fatherhood Is Quiet Work. Patience is invisible. You cannot see it, touch it, or measure it. But it shapes everything.

My father never said "I love you." Not once. Not in seventy five years. But I never doubted his love. Actions speak louder than words. When I was sick as a child, he carried me on his back for three hours through the dark. No words. Just his shoulders, moving beneath me. Just his breath, steady and calm. Just his presence, saying everything.

When we had nothing to eat, he gave me his portion. Not with a speech about sacrifice. Just silently pushing his plate toward me. When I left Nepal for the first time, he stood at the village edge and watched me walk away. He did not cry. He did not wave. He just stood there, a small figure against the hills, until I could not see him anymore.

A small figure against the hills. I had to leave the village to finally understand the silent, steady love my father gave me.

That is love. Not in words. In everything else.

Now I try to do the same for my son. Not with grand statements, but with small things. Closing my laptop when he brings me a tower. Putting my phone away at dinner. Sitting beside him in silence when he is sad. No one tells you that love speaks loudest when it says nothing at all.

Life's hard lessons are often silent. When I moved to Belgium, I thought I was prepared. I had lived in Singapore, South Korea, London, Portugal, Denmark. I knew what it meant to be a stranger. But Belgium was different. The language. The weather. The quiet streets that felt empty after the chaos of London. The first winter nearly broke me.

The first winter in Belgium taught me that you have to let go of who you were to become who you need to be.

I remember standing in a supermarket, trying to buy simple things, unable to understand the labels. I wanted to cry. I wanted to go home. But home was 7,000 kilometers away, and I could not afford the ticket. No one told me that moving to a new country would feel like dying a little. That you have to let go of who you were to become who you need to be. That the loneliness would teach you things comfort never could.

I learned resilience not from advice, but from waking up every day and trying again. I learned empathy not from books, but from feeling what it means to be the outsider. I learned that discomfort is not your enemy. It is your hardest teacher, and also your best.

I come from a culture where men do not talk about feelings. We carry them. Silently. Alone. My father carried so much. The weight of feeding a family with no money. The weight of watching his children leave, one by one, for countries he could not imagine. The weight of growing old in a house that grew quieter every year.

He never complained. Never explained. Just carried.

Now I am the same. When money is tight, I do not tell my wife. When I worry about my son's future, I do not share it. When I miss my village so much it hurts, I sit alone in the dark and let the feeling pass through me. Some people say this is unhealthy. Maybe they are right. But this is who I am. This is how I was raised. This is how I survive. And I have learned that not all feelings need expression. Some need to be felt quietly, processed slowly, released in their own time. Like my father, I carry what I must. And somehow, I keep walking.

Failure teaches what success cannot. Last month, I burned dinner. Simple dal, the dish I have made a thousand times. I was thinking about something, a call with my father, a worry about money, and suddenly the smell of smoke filled the kitchen. My wife came in. She looked at the pot, at me, at the smoke. She did not say anything. Just opened a window and started chopping vegetables for something new.

That moment taught me more than any success ever could. Failure teaches you that you are human. That the world does not end when you burn the dal. That the people who love you will open windows and start over with you. My son fails every day. His towers fall. His buttons defeat him. And every time, he tries again. He does not call himself a failure. He just builds another tower. I am learning from him.

Time is a teacher. I have been in Belgium for three years. When I look at photographs from our first week here, I barely recognize myself. Younger. More scared. More hopeful in a desperate way. Time has taught me that the pain of leaving does not disappear, but it softens. Like a stone in a river, worn smooth by years of water passing over it.

It has taught me that my son will not be small forever. That the days are long but the years are short. That the tiny moments I write about are not just nice stories. They are my life. They are everything. It has taught me that my father, 7,000 kilometers away, is aging faster than I want to admit. That every phone call matters. Time teaches slowly. But what it teaches, it teaches deeply.

Connection does not always need conversation. My wife and I have learned to sit in silence together. After a long day, after our son is asleep, we just sit. Sometimes we talk. Often we do not. Just presence. Just being. I used to think silence between couples was a problem to fix. Now I know different. Now I know that silence can be the deepest connection of all. On the phone with my father, we sit in silence too. The connection crackles. Neither of us speaks. But we are together. That is enough.

Perspective comes from distance. I never understood my father until I became one. I never understood my village until I left it. I never understood Nepal until I lived in countries that were not Nepal. Standing in Belgium, calling my father, I finally understand what he gave me. Not money. Not things. Just himself. Just his presence. Just his silent, steady love. I could not see it when I was close. I had to leave to understand.

Small, ordinary moments are extraordinary. This morning, I made tea and sat by the window. Rain tapping. Refrigerator humming. My son still asleep. Nothing special. But I will remember this morning forever. Because these are the moments that build a life. The ordinary Tuesdays. The rain on the window. The tea in your hands. No one tells you to pay attention to these moments. You have to learn that yourself, by living, by noticing, by being present when everything in the world tells you to rush.

My father taught me without teaching. My son teaches me without knowing. My wife teaches me without speaking. My grandfather's stories still teach me, years after his voice went silent. The most important lessons of my life were never spoken aloud. They were shown. In actions. In silences. Now I try to be someone worth observing. Not perfect. Not wise. Just present. Just trying. Just loving in the quiet ways that matter most.

When I was young, I thought wisdom came from books. Now I know different. Wisdom comes from living. From failing. From sitting in silence with the people you love. From watching your son struggle with buttons and trusting him to find his way. These are the lessons no one tells you. They do not come with instructions. They just come. Quietly. Slowly. Like the morning light, seeping through curtains, filling your life before you even notice.

The ordinary mornings. The rain on the window. These are the quiet moments that build a life

My son just woke up. I hear him stirring in his room. Soon he will appear, rubbing his eyes, asking for breakfast, filling the apartment with his small, beautiful noise. I will make him food. I will listen to his stories. I will watch him try to button his shirt again.

And I will remember: these are the lessons. This is the teaching. This ordinary Tuesday morning, full of nothing special, full of everything that matters. Life shows them anyway, quietly, slowly, if you are paying attention.

What is one lesson life has quietly taught you, without anyone ever saying it out loud? I would love to hear your story. Because we are all learning. All the time. From each other. From our children. From our fathers.

That is the lesson. That is the teaching. And it never ends.

With love,
Bitty