Anonymous Confession
I moved abroad and slowly lost who I was
I thought I knew exactly who I was when I landed in Toronto five years ago. A determined young engineer from Bangalore, full of dreams, armed with a scholarship and a relentless drive. I imagined late-night study sessions turning into brilliant career breakthroughs, a vibrant social life, and the kind of independence I could only dream of back home. The air even smelled different – cleaner, crisper, full of possibility. The first few months were a blur of excitement, navigating new subway lines, marveling at the orderly queues, and trying every Tim Hortons donut I could find. But somewhere amidst that initial rush, a slow, insidious change began.
The loneliness started subtly. It wasn’t the kind that hits you with a pang, but a dull ache that settled deep in my chest. Back home, my days were a cacophony of family chatter, friends dropping by unannounced, and the constant hum of city life. Here, the silence in my tiny studio apartment was deafening. I’d call my parents, painting a rosy picture of my life, laughing a little too loudly, careful not to let them hear the tremor in my voice. Every festival was a fresh wound. Diwali was spent watching old Bollywood movies alone, the tiny electric *diya* I bought feeling like a mocking flicker against the warmth of my memories. Holi meant wistfully scrolling through Instagram stories of friends smeared in colours, while I just went to work.
Cultural differences were a constant, invisible barrier. The polite smiles, the reserved conversations. People would ask “How are you?” but rarely waited for a real answer. Friendships felt like delicate, unfamiliar flowers that needed careful nurturing I didn’t know how to give. Back home, friendships were forged in shared meals, boisterous arguments, and a deep understanding that transcended words. Here, I found myself always performing a version of myself I thought they wanted – less loud, less expressive, more… Canadian. I started second-guessing my jokes, wondering if my enthusiasm was too much, if my longing for connection was too intense.
My attempts at relationships were equally disheartening. I tried dating apps, went on a few coffee dates. The conversations felt superficial, the cultural gap vast. I missed the easy camaraderie, the shared history, the understanding of unsaid things. My parents, of course, were subtly pushing for marriage. “There must be some nice Indian girls there, beta,” my mother would say, oblivious to the fact that I often felt invisible, utterly disconnected. The pressure added another layer of anxiety to my already fragile state.
And then there was the visa. The constant, looming shadow. Every job application, every career move, every decision was filtered through the lens of permanent residency. The fear of rejection, the endless paperwork, the thought of having to pack up everything and go back as a “failure” was a constant, gnawing anxiety. It made me cautious, risk-averse, and even more isolated. Who could I truly confide in about this existential dread, when everyone around me seemed to have their life so neatly planned?
I stopped cooking elaborate Indian meals, preferring the convenience of bland pasta or takeout. My Hindi, once fluent and expressive, now felt clunky, peppered with English words. The person who used to debate politics passionately, dance uninhibitedly at weddings, and laugh with an infectious joy, felt like a ghost. I’ve become quieter, more observant, always on the periphery. I’ve gained a kind of worldly experience, sure, but I feel like I shed pieces of my soul along the way, leaving behind a husk of who I once was.
Sometimes, I look in the mirror and don’t quite recognize the eyes staring back. They carry a weariness, a guardedness that wasn’t there before. I achieved what I set out to do – a good job, financial stability, a life in the West. But at what cost? And now, standing here, a stranger in a strange land and a stranger to myself, I have to ask: Was it all worth it?
