What does it truly mean to be foreign? It’s more than crossing physical borders—being foreign is a deep experience that transforms identity, shatters certainties, and opens the door to a life in motion. In this article, I share my personal journey of migrating, returning, and discovering that the real voyage begins when you no longer know where you belong.
What Does Being Foreign Really Mean?
When I left Argentina, I wasn’t aware that I wasn’t just moving away for a few months—I was leaving my family, my friends, my career, and the life I had built over the years. Above all, I was letting go of a sense of self I had fiercely maintained through my early twenties—a sense I had thought irreversible.
After taking that leap into the unknown, I realized the ocean didn’t just separate me from everything I knew—it was an abyss with no return. The feeling of being foreign in a new continent, where I didn’t know anyone, overwhelmed me. For the first time, I was submerged in total uncertainty: who I’d meet, what I’d do, and how I’d survive.
Grieving the Identity You Leave Behind
That year, I arrived in Croatia planning to connect with distant cousins and the land of my great-grandparents, not to awaken the depths of my spirit or resurrect a desire for perpetual travel. I didn’t know the language or anyone; I had under a thousand euros and no plan. Yet, I knew I had to be there.
Nothing was as advertised. The pandemic, the mix of good and bad people I met, the hunger, and the impossibility of getting residency or work—all taught me that leaving your country and taking a leap isn’t as rosy as travel memoirs make it out to be. The heartache, the melancholy, the burning emptiness—it all made it clear I couldn’t return home, yet I couldn’t stay stuck in a limbo between what I wanted and what I thought should have been.
When Home No Longer Exists Anywhere
Suddenly, I realized that the identity I had proudly held for years was incompatible with my new reality. I knew that I wouldn’t get far unless I was willing to dismantle myself and adopt the unknown as my guiding flag. I let myself fall, allowed destruction to consume me, to shape me. At that point, I no longer knew who I was, what I wanted, or what scared me. The only certainty was that I was foreign, without European citizenship, trying to build a path in a completely unfamiliar world.
The Unexpected Beauty of Being Foreign
Without direction, I embraced what felt like my only certainty and embedded it into my identity: being foreign, a rootless soul who had left their country unsure of when—or even if—they’d ever return. At first, this idea of being foreign, even in the depths of my own heart, felt like a hurricane tearing apart my sanity. But over time, it became my engine, the reason I got up every day to keep going.
Though I made friends, formed strong bonds, learned the language, and earned respect in my work, in my heart I knew I didn’t fully belong. But it wasn’t painful—it felt empowering, opening me to all the blessings the universe had in store.
Yes, I was foreign, but that wasn’t a bad thing. It wasn’t a mark of homelessness—it was the banner I carried with pride. The sign remained, but the meaning was completely transformed. I wasn’t trying to return to a home I could never go back to because I had irrevocably changed. Instead, I was finding comfort wherever I was.
Returning Home as an expat
Initially, I believed I would only be foreign outside my country. But I soon realized that uprootedness had imprinted on my skin and soul in ways that nothing could erase. When I arrived at Ezeiza airport after two years, I greeted my family and friends, yet it was not the same me stepping off the plane. The foreigner returning couldn’t shed her wandering identity—like a coat left on a hook.
Coming back to Argentina, I didn’t find an unfamiliar country—it was precisely the same: same streets, routines, same conversations. But I was different. I had seen things no one around me had, lived experiences I couldn’t fully translate into words. I had spent two years waking up not knowing what would happen next, with unpredictability as the only constant.
It took me time to accept that Argentina would never feel like home—not in the same way it once did. My deep love remained, but the roots were gone. I knew I loved my homeland, yet I knew I would leave again sooner than later.
My love had not wavered, but it wasn’t enough to give up being foreign. The idea of traveling with an identity that was perpetually “not me” had woven itself into my heart like ivy. I realized that the universe kept affirming that I had to plunge into the unknown, let go, embrace the permanent destruction of essence, and become a question mark standing on its own.
The Price—and Freedom—of Being Foreign
I won’t lie: being foreign, even in your own country, can sometimes hurt. The loneliness, the inability to find people who understand the questions that stir in your soul—it’s a weight I might carry forever. Yet, at the same time, defining myself as a wanderer allows me to be whoever I want without boundaries. Not belonging anywhere, I travel knowing I can build a temporary home wherever I choose.
As both curse and blessing, a path with no return, I surrendered my soul to impermanence, the unknown, curiosity, and unending chaos—not searching for resolution anymore. A question without a single answer, an ellipsis, a signifier that never seeks one finite meaning but is redefined infinitely.
If you are interested in nomadic life and emigration, you can check out the articles in this category! 🙂