The Hidden Losses of Immigration
Moving to a new country is often seen as a bold, inspiring choice—something that makes you worldly, brave, adventurous. I’ve lived in several countries over the years, and each time I relocated—for school, for family, for pursuing my passion, for healing—I carried those labels. And on some level, they were true. But they only tell part of the story.
The other part is quieter. It’s what happens inside: the subtle erosion of familiarity, the constant scanning for cues, the exhaustion of always being slightly out of sync. It’s laughing at jokes you didn’t fully understand just to fit in. It’s missing the smell of your childhood kitchen, or the way people in your hometown knew who you were, and you could read them with much more fluency. It’s being fluent in the new language but still unable to express the texture of your soul.
This linguistic pain is described by Julis Kristeva eloquently:
“Not to speak your own mother tongue. To live with sounds, logics, that are separated from the nocturnal memory of the body, from the sweet-sour sleep of childhood. To carry within yourself like a secret crypt or like a handicapped child—loved and useless—that language of once-upon-a-time that fades and won't make up its mind to leave you ever. You learn to use another instrument, like expressing yourself in algebra or on the violin.”
That line stopped me the first time I read it. Because that’s exactly how it feels sometimes. You can function, yes—but there’s a part of you, often the tenderest part, that stays mute. When I’m coaching English-speaking and Farsi-Speaking expats here in the Netherlands—whether they’re professionals, athletes, creatives, or students—I often sense that muted part just beneath the surface.
Language, in this view, is not just communication—it’s connection. To speak in one's mother tongue is to access a world of internal resonance, to feel understood without translation. Losing that, or relegating it to private spaces, can feel like a form of psychic exile
We don’t always talk about this loss directly. But it shows up in subtle ways: perfectionism, a longing to belong, chronic self-doubt, or simply a flatness in the face of what “should” be an exciting life abroad. Akhtar describes immigration as “a form of mourning.” And he’s right. Even when the move is voluntary, even when the life is beautiful—there is loss.
Loss of spontaneity in language
Loss of shared cultural rhythm
Loss of being known without needing to explain
Immigration is not merely a change in geography, but a shift in identity, a rupture in continuity. it is rife with wishes and visions. The wish to one day return to the motherland, the vision of unbound success and glory.
There is also profound resilience. Expats learn to re-root. They adapt. They carry the best parts of home with them while building new versions of self. But real integration doesn’t happen through denial or constant positivity. It happens through acknowledgment. Through making space for the grief, the strangeness, and the beauty of this in-between life.
For me, Epona Wellness was born from this place—the desire to support others navigating the inner world of change. If you’re living in the Netherlands and finding yourself strangely adrift despite outward success, I want you to know this is a shared human experience. It makes sense. And there’s a way through it that honors both where you’ve been and where you’re going.