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

A quiet, peaceful morning in Bruges - the backdrop of my son’s life today.

I was born in a village in Nepal. No electricity. No telephone. No roads for transport. I walked an hour to school every day, often on an empty stomach, in worn-out shoes or sometimes barefoot.

Every morning, I walk my son to school. It takes five minutes. We hold hands. We cross quiet streets. We pass by tidy houses and green gardens. He chats about his toys and his friends. He is happy. He is relaxed. He has no idea what school meant for me at his age.

When I think about my son walking into his classroom in Belgium, I remember my own walk to school in Nepal. We both walked. We both sat in a classroom, learning from a teacher. But our worlds could not be more different.

This is not about who is better or who worked harder. This is about what we carry with us. This is about the invisible gap between students who appear equal but have traveled very different roads.

Talent is found in every classroom. Opportunity is not.

The Morning Before School: Then and Now

My Childhood Morning in Nepal

I woke up before sunrise without an alarm clock; the crowing of the rooster was my signal. My mother was already up, preparing food over a wood fire. There was no gas stove. No electricity.

I helped fetch water from the tap down the hill. I helped with small chores. Then I got ready for school. My uniform was simple and often patched. My bag was made of cloth. There were no store bought notebooks. We used slates or cheap exercise books.

I ate whatever was available. Sometimes it was just rice and a bit of vegetable. Sometimes there was less. I never complained because everyone in the village ate the same way.

Then I started walking. One hour. Sometimes more, depending on the weather. During the monsoon, the path turned to slippery mud. During winter, the cold wind cut through my thin clothes. I walked with other children from the village. We talked, we laughed, and we helped each other cross streams.

By the time I reached school, I was already tired. But class had just begun.

My Son's Morning in Belgium

My son wakes up in a warm room. He has his own bed, his own blanket, his own toys. The heater keeps the house comfortable. There is always food in the kitchen.

He eats breakfast with my wife and me. Bread, cheese, yogurt, fruit. He drinks fresh milk. His clothes are clean and warm. His school bag is new. His shoes are comfortable.

He does not have to fetch water. He does not have to chop wood. He does not have to help with chores before school. His only job is to get ready and be on time.

Then we walk. Five minutes. We hold hands. We talk about what he will learn today. We arrive with energy. He walks into a clean classroom with light and heat. He is not tired before the first lesson.

This is the difference I cannot ignore. One child walked an hour to school through mud and rain. My son walks five minutes on paved streets. Both are children. Both want to learn. But one begins the day already behind.

What Happens Inside the Classroom: Similar Desks, Different Worlds

Inside the classroom, children look equal. They sit at identical desks, listen to their teachers, and open their books.

The light by which I studied; a symbol of the challenges I faced while dreaming beyond my village.

But I know what I carried into that classroom as a child. By the time I reached school, my stomach was often growling. My clothes were sometimes damp from the rain. I was already tired before the first lesson began. And behind all of it was a quiet fear that one day I might have to leave school because my family could no longer afford it.

My son will carry none of that. He will carry a full stomach. He will carry confidence. He will carry the knowledge that his parents support him completely. He will carry the privilege of never worrying about whether he can continue his education.

When I sat in my village school, I looked at the blackboard and tried to focus. Sometimes my mind wandered. I wondered if my mother had enough rice for the evening. I wondered if the monsoon would damage our small plot of land. I wondered if my father would find work.

These thoughts did not make me a bad student. They made me a human child carrying adult worries.

My son will never have to wonder about such things. He will focus on learning. He will focus on playing with friends. He will focus on being a child.

My Journey: From Village to the World

After I finished my School Leaving Certificate in Nepal, I went to Singapore for higher studies. That was my first time on an airplane. That was my first time seeing a city. That was my first time using a computer.

I remember the shock. The buildings were tall. The roads were clean. The lights never went out. Everything worked. The students around me had phones, laptops, and knowledge of the world. I had to learn fast.

I kept moving. South Korea. London. Portugal. Denmark. Each country taught me something new. Each country showed me a different way of living. Each country reminded me how far I had come from my village in Nepal.

Now I live in Bruges, Belgium. It is a beautiful city with canals, cobblestone streets, and a quiet rhythm of life. My wife is here. My children are here. We have built a life.

But my story is not just about me. It is about the millions of children still sitting in village classrooms in Nepal. It is about the millions of children who will never leave. Not because they are less capable, but because they never get the chance.

What My Son Will Never Know

My son will never know what it feels like to study by candlelight. He will never have to share a textbook with three other students. He will never have to worry about his school fees. He will never have to walk an hour through mud and rain. He will never have to choose between buying a notebook and buying food.

These are not bad things. I am grateful my son will not experience these struggles. But I also worry.

I worry that he will never understand how lucky he is. I worry that he will take his education for granted. I worry that he will not understand the gap between his world and the world of children in Nepal.

I do not want him to feel guilty. Guilt does not help anyone. I want him to feel aware. I want him to feel grateful. I want him to understand that his education is a gift, not a right that everyone receives equally.

What I Learned From Walking to School

That one hour walk taught me discipline. It taught me that nothing comes easy. It taught me that education is precious because it costs so much to get it.

Every day, as I walked to school, I passed other children who were not walking to school. Some were working in the fields. Some were tending animals. Some were helping their parents sell vegetables at the market. Some were girls who had been pulled out of school to help at home.

I knew how lucky I was to be walking to school. Even when I was tired. Even when my shoes had holes. Even when it was raining.

That awareness never left me. It pushed me to study harder. It pushed me to ask questions. It pushed me to dream beyond my village.

My son will not have that awareness naturally. He will have to learn it. That is my responsibility as his father.

And now, every morning when we walk those five minutes together, I feel something I cannot fully explain. A mix of gratitude and sadness. Gratitude that my son will never suffer as I did. Sadness that he may never truly understand how different his life is from the life I lived.

The school where my early education began, before my journey took me far from home and into a hostel for further studies.

The Myth of Equal Opportunity: What I Know Now

When I was a child, I believed that if I worked hard enough, I would succeed. My parents told me that. My teachers told me that. I believed it completely.

Now I know the truth. Hard work matters. But so do so many other things.

• Family support matters. I had parents who believed in education, even though they could not afford it.
• Health matters. I was lucky to be healthy. Many children in my village could not attend school because of illness.
• Access matters. I had a school to go to. There were books to read. There was a teacher who showed up every day.
• Luck matters. I got scholarships. I got chances. I met people who helped me.

None of these things were in my control. I did not earn them. I was given them. Or I was lucky enough to have them.

This is what I want my son to understand. Success is not just about effort. Success is about opportunity. And opportunity is not distributed equally.

What Rich Students Often Don't See

I have lived in many countries. I have met students who grew up in comfort. They have traveled. They have computers. They have support.

Many of them believe they succeeded purely through their own hard work. They do not see the doors that were already open for them.

I understand why. When you have always had enough, you do not notice what you have. When you have always had support, you do not notice the absence of support. When you have always had privilege, it feels normal.

I do not blame them. But I want them to see. I want them to understand that not everyone starts from the same place.

What Poor Students Often Don't Know

When I sat in my village school, I often felt behind. My English was not good. My handwriting was messy. I did not understand some concepts.

I thought I was less capable than the students in the city. I thought they were naturally smarter.

Now I know the truth. They were not smarter. They had more resources. They had better schools. They had books. They had help at home.

I was not less capable. I was just less resourced.

This is what I want every child in Nepal to know. You are not behind because you are not smart enough. You are behind because your circumstances have not given you the same tools. The problem is not your ability. The problem is your access.

The Walk That Changed Everything

When I walk my son to school now, I think about the walk I made as a child. One hour versus five minutes. Mud versus pavement. Hunger versus a full stomach. Fear versus confidence.

That one hour walk changed me. It taught me to endure. It taught me to appreciate. It taught me that education was not a right, it was a privilege.

My five minute walk with my son is different. It is easy. It is comfortable. It is joyful.

But I hope it teaches him something too. I hope it teaches him that his education is a gift. I hope it teaches him that not everyone has what he has. I hope it teaches him to be grateful and compassionate.

If We Really Want Fairness

Fairness is not about giving everyone the same thing. Fairness is about giving each person what they need to succeed.

In Nepal, fairness would mean better schools in villages. It would mean scholarships for poor families. It would mean free textbooks and uniforms. It would mean roads and transportation so children do not have to walk for hours. It would mean electricity and internet. It would mean mid day meals so children are not studying hungry.

In Belgium, fairness would mean recognizing the hidden gaps. It would mean support for students from immigrant and working class families. It would mean language help and tutoring. It would mean understanding that some students carry burdens that others do not see.

These are not charitable ideas. They are investments in human potential. Every child who falls behind is a loss for all of us.

A Question for Readers

As I walk my son to school each morning, I often think about how different his experience is from my own.

Maybe your story is different. Maybe you grew up in a city, or perhaps you also walked a long distance to school. Maybe you studied with every resource available, or maybe you had to overcome challenges that others never saw.

I would love to hear your experience.

What was your journey to school like as a child?

Do you think opportunity played a role in where you are today?

And if you are a parent, what lessons from your own childhood do you hope your children would understand?

Share your thoughts in the comments. I read every response, and I am always interested in hearing the different roads that brought people to where they are today.

The Lessons I Want My Sons to Learn

I want my sons to know where I came from. I want them to know what it means to walk an hour to school. I want them to know what it means to study by candlelight. I want them to know what it means to dream of something bigger.

My son in his classroom today - a five-minute walk,
a world of difference, and a future filled with opportunity.

But I also want them to know that their privilege is not their achievement. They did not choose to be born in Belgium. They did not choose to have parents who can support them. They did not choose to have opportunities that others lack.

They were given these things. Just as I was given things I did not earn.

So I want them to be grateful. I want them to be aware. I want them to be compassionate. I want them to use their opportunities to help others.

And I want them to never judge another student by their results. You never know what road they traveled to get to that classroom.

Conclusion: Two Schools, One Father

Every morning, I walk my son to school. Five minutes. He holds my hand. He chats about his day. He is happy and safe and full of hope.

And I remember my own walk. One hour. Alone or with village friends. Muddy roads. Empty stomach. Worn shoes. Full of fear and determination.

Both walks led to school. Both walks led to learning. But the distance between those two walks is enormous. One was a struggle. One is a gift.

I cannot change the past. I cannot change where I was born. But I can teach my sons to see the gap. I can teach them to be grateful. I can teach them to use their opportunities to make the world more fair.

The real tragedy is not that some students fail. The real tragedy is how many never get the opportunity to show what they are capable of.

Talent is found in every classroom. Opportunity is not.

I walked an hour to school so that my sons would never have to. But I also walked an hour to school so that my sons would understand what that walk cost. And what it gave me.

The gap between rich and poor students is real. It is hidden. And it is one of the most important issues of our time.

Every morning, my son walks five minutes to school. Every morning, I remember the boy who walked an hour. The distance between those two schools is not measured in kilometers. It is measured in opportunity. And until every child has a fair chance to learn, that distance still matters.

With love ❤️ 

-Bitty 

Brugge, Belgium