If you’d met me five years ago, you’d probably think I was living the “NRI dream.” Good job in the US, Instagram posts of snowy winters, shiny trips to Europe. My family and friends back in India cheered me on, sending sweet messages of pride—at least, that’s what it looked like on social media.

But here’s my confession: becoming an NRI (Non-Resident Indian) wasn’t the fairy tale I thought it would be. The excitement faded fast. Loneliness, culture shock, and guilt crept in, and the more I tried to fit in abroad, the more I felt like an outsider back home.

It started with small things—a missed festival celebration, a favorite cousin’s wedding I couldn’t attend, endless video calls that blurred into awkward silences. My parents tried to bridge the distance, but phone calls couldn’t replace the warmth of home-cooked meals or spontaneous laughter around the dinner table.

I didn’t fit in the US either. The accent, the jokes, the “where are you really from?” questions. I played along, laughed off the stereotypes, but every day felt like balancing on a tightrope—too Indian for America, too American for India. When I finally visited home, I was a strange guest in my own house; friends joked about my “NRI habits,” and family treated me like a celebrity, not their own blood.

The worst part was the guilt. I missed funerals, birthdays, and last conversations. I sent money home—everyone thanked me, but no amount could buy back lost time. My Instagram never showed the tears I shed when I saw wedding photos from afar, or the ache in my chest every time my parents’ hair looked grayer on video calls.

The struggle to belong left me with secrets no one talks about—the pressure to succeed, the fear of losing touch, and the silent pain behind every “I’m fine, just busy with work.” I became a master of hiding homesickness, afraid that admitting my vulnerability would disappoint those who believed I was thriving.

Slowly, I’ve started opening up about how being an NRI is both a privilege and a burden. The life abroad offers opportunity, but it also demands sacrifice—a constant longing for home, and a quiet hope that one day, “home” will feel like somewhere again. If you’re reading this and feel the same, know that you aren’t alone. Our stories deserve to be told—the messy ones, the honest confessions, the truth behind the proud label of “NRI.”