Struggling to Adapt as an Immigrant

A little over a week ago, I travelled to Spain. The trip had a special purpose: to check in on someone I care about who recently started a new life there. A person who had to leave everything behind in search of safety and dignity. Together with some friends, we had supported him in making the move, knowing how urgent and necessary it was. But even knowing that, I was not fully prepared for what I saw and felt.

Being a migrant is never easy. And if you are naturally shy and fearful of being ridiculed, it becomes even harder. Despite having a circle of support and some stability, he is confronting challenges I had never truly imagined. The popular narrative focuses so much on learning a new language, adapting to a new culture, navigating new streets and systems. That, in fact, can be the easiest part. It is often even exciting. What is far more difficult is managing your vulnerabilities and fears in an environment that, for now, is unfamiliar and unforgiving.

What I witnessed was the emotional weight of having to prove yourself constantly. The pressure from people left behind to succeed at any cost—because failure is not an option when others depend on you to survive. The inner shame of not having completed an education, of watching locals casually reference their prestigious universities and career paths, when all you ever had was the resilience to survive. It is the heavy, quiet pain of being poor in a place that often equates worth with material success. Of feeling judged just for being from “elsewhere.”

It is also about the dependencies that emerge. Feeling obliged to constantly express gratitude for even the smallest of favours, afraid that if you don’t, you will be abandoned, cut off, or seen as ungrateful. It is about a life where dignity sometimes feels conditional. And, above all, it is about the loneliness—profound and lingering—and the ache of missing home, even when home was difficult. That kind of homesickness does not always go away. It just finds quieter corners to live in.

But there is also joy. There is joy in small triumphs: in navigating bureaucracy, in finding work, in being able to pay rent, in understanding a joke in a new language, in taking the metro to a new part of town. There is joy in growing, in building a life little by little, in learning how to trust again. That joy is real. And it must be celebrated.

Still, it is hard. And for those of us who are part of the communities that receive migrants, even when our intentions are good, we often forget the quiet battles they fight every day. We don’t always see the fear, the shame, the pressure, the silent grief. We think they are lucky. But we forget that even freedom comes with a cost when you are vulnerable.

So here is a gentle reminder: let’s not take kindness for granted. Let’s not assume that someone’s quietness is indifference or ingratitude. Let us do all we can to listen more carefully, to understand more deeply, and to be just a little softer with one another. Because we never know the weight someone else is carrying—and sometimes, kindness is the only thing that makes the weight bearable.