Emigration brings a loneliness we often don't expect. When that loneliness mixes with homesickness, it's easy to believe the problem is the place where we live. But before deciding whether to stay or return, it's worth looking more closely at what's really happening.
When you emigrate, you lose something we usually take for granted — accumulated time with others. The lack of friends is often not literal — there are people around — but the absence of shared history. Before deciding to go back, it's worth exploring what changes in your current life could ease the discomfort, because sometimes the problem isn't the country, but other areas that are still being built.
Key takeaways
The lack of friends after emigrating is usually about absent shared history, not absent people.
Deep friendships are built through accumulated time, vulnerability, and behaviors that allow intimacy — they don't appear from nowhere.
Our actions can reinforce the beliefs that isolate us: waiting for invitations instead of proposing them, not asking for help, not sharing what's happening to us.
Rigid expectations about how emigration "should" be going add a second layer of suffering to the actual experience.
Before deciding to go back, it's worth unpacking what you actually miss and what changes in your current life could ease the discomfort without changing countries.
"I don't have friends here" — what that phrase really means
There's something I hear often from people who have emigrated: "I don't have friends here." But when we start to explore what that means exactly, many times we discover it's not so literal.
There are people — colleagues, someone you've gone out with a couple of times, acquaintances, someone you had a good conversation with or thought "we could get along." What doesn't exist yet is shared history. And that difference matters.
Sometimes we compare a friendship we've had for three months with a friend we've known for ten years and conclude: "I don't connect with anyone the way I did back home." But that friend didn't start out as the person you called crying at three in the morning either. There were birthdays, conversations, favors, awkward moments, plans that went well and others that didn't, small disappointments, reconciliations, and hundreds of seemingly insignificant interactions.
A useful practice this week: make a list of the people you know here. Next to each one, write what you have in common, how many times you've seen each other, and whether there's something you'd like to do with them. Often you'll discover there's more potential than you thought.
How trust is built, not found
Trust doesn't appear — it's built. One of the difficulties of emigrating is that we lose something we often took for granted — accumulated time with others. And we want to rebuild in a few months a network that took us years to form in our home country.
That's why when someone tells me in a session "I know people, but I don't connect with anyone," I'm interested in what happens after that first meeting. Did you meet someone you liked and wait for them to reach out again? Did you suggest doing something together? If they turned down an invitation, did you interpret that as lack of interest? How many chances do you give a connection before deciding there was "no chemistry"?
Because something paradoxical can also happen: we want to have a network, but we keep functioning as if we're alone. We don't ask for help because we don't want to bother anyone. We don't share that we're going through a hard time because "there isn't enough trust yet." We wait to be invited instead of proposing. We try to seem self-sufficient. We expect to feel intimacy before behaving in ways that allow us to build intimacy.
We want the result of a deep connection without going through the vulnerability it requires to get there.
This week, identify one person you'd like to connect with more. Suggest something concrete — a coffee, an activity, a call — without waiting for them to take the initiative. Notice what happens.
What am I doing (or not doing) that keeps the problem going?
From a cognitive-behavioral perspective, it's not enough to just ask ourselves what we think or feel. We also need to look at what we're doing — or not doing — that might be keeping the problem in place.
If I believe that no one is really interested in knowing me, and to protect myself from rejection I never suggest a second plan, I'm unlikely to have experiences that contradict that belief. If I think there isn't enough trust yet to share what's happening to me, but I never share what's happening to me, how is that trust going to grow?
Our actions can reinforce the beliefs that isolate us. This doesn't mean the problem is your fault — loneliness after emigrating is real and it's hard. But it does mean there's something you can do differently, even if it's small.
Ask yourself: in what areas of my life am I waiting instead of proposing? Where am I protecting myself from rejection in ways that prevent others from knowing me? A single different action can start to shift the dynamic.
The life I have versus the life I should have
There's another pattern I find frequently in people who have emigrated: they're not just evaluating their current life. They're constantly comparing it to the life they imagined before emigrating. And that's where the "shoulds" appear.
By now I should have friends. I should speak the language better. I should have found a job that matches my training. I should feel at home. I should be enjoying myself. I should know whether I want to stay.
Rigid expectations can significantly increase the discomfort that a situation already produces. It's not the same to think: "I still find it hard to speak the language" as "after all this time, I should speak it perfectly." The objective reality might be exactly the same. The second sentence, however, adds a conclusion about you: I'm behind, I'm failing, something is wrong.
Sometimes the migration experience really is difficult. We don't need to romanticize it or turn all suffering into "personal growth." But other times there's a second layer of suffering created by the gap between how your life is actually going and how you believe it should be going.
A question that might feel uncomfortable, but also very useful, is: if for a moment you removed the life you imagined you'd have when you emigrated, how would you evaluate the life you actually have today? You might still say you don't like it. And that's also important information. But you might discover that some things aren't as bad as they seem when they stop competing against an idealized version of how they "should" have turned out.
What exactly does "I want to go back" mean?
When several areas of our life start to hurt at the same time, the brain tries to find an explanation that makes sense of them all. I don't like my job. I feel lonely. I don't have the network I had before. I struggle with the language. I'm not recognized professionally. I'm exhausted. I don't like my routine.
And all of those experiences can be summed up in a single sentence: "The problem is that I'm here." Then another one appears: "I want to go back."
In therapy, before turning that sentence into a decision, I want to take it apart. What exactly does "I want to go back" mean? Do I miss my country or do I miss certain people? Do I miss the place or do I miss who I was when I lived there? Do I miss having friends or do I miss not having to work to build connections from scratch? Do I miss my profession, my status, my language, my routines, feeling competent? Do I really want to abandon the life project I have here, or do I want to stop feeling the way I'm feeling?
These aren't questions meant to convince anyone to stay. Going back can be a completely valid decision. But it's worth knowing exactly what you want when you say you want to go back.
Two contradictory feelings can coexist
From approaches like Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), we can think that two seemingly contradictory experiences don't need to cancel each other out. You can know that emigrating was a good decision and deeply miss your previous life. You can want the project you've built and be tired of some of its consequences. You can feel gratitude for what you gained and grief for what you lost.
Psychological flexibility involves, among other things, being able to make room for that complexity without needing to resolve it immediately by eliminating one of the two parts. You don't have to choose between feeling one thing or the other. You can feel both, and that doesn't mean you're confused or that you don't know what you want.
That ability to hold two truths at the same time — even if they seem opposite — is what allows you to make decisions from a clearer place, not from panic or the urgency of resolving the pain.
Is there something that could change without changing countries?
Even though going back and staying seem like the two big options, there's a third question worth exploring: is there something in my current life that could change without changing countries?
Maybe what needs to change is the job. Or the routine. Or the way you're trying to meet people. Maybe you need to ask for more help, expose yourself more to the language, reclaim personal spaces, build community, or accept that you're still going through a grief process.
The goal of therapy shouldn't be to convince you to stay or to convince you to leave. It's to help you tell apart what part of your discomfort really belongs to the place you live, what part belongs to other areas of your life, and what part comes from the inevitable process of having left behind a life where years of history already existed.
Because emigrating isn't just changing countries. It's also moving, for a time, from a life where many things were already built to one where they're still being built. And something not existing yet doesn't necessarily mean it won't exist.
Frequently asked questions
How do I make friends if I've emigrated?
Start with the people you already know. Suggest a second meeting, tell them something about yourself, ask about their lives. Friendships are built through accumulated time and vulnerability, not from nowhere. Look for spaces where people share interests — classes, volunteer groups, online communities. Consistency matters more than intensity.
Is it normal to feel lonely after emigrating?
Yes, it's completely normal. You lost years of shared history with other people. That doesn't mean something is wrong with you or that you can't build new connections. It's a legitimate grief, and at the same time, it's a process that takes time. Many people feel lonely in the first months or years after emigrating.
How do I know if I want to go back to my country?
Before deciding, unpack what "I want to go back" means exactly. Do you miss people, the place, who you were, your profession, your network? Do you want to abandon the project you have here or do you want to stop feeling the way you're feeling? Sometimes the discomfort comes from other areas of life, not the country. It's worth exploring what changes could ease the pain without changing countries.
Why is it hard to connect with people abroad?
It could be for several reasons: rigid expectations about what friendship "should" be like, self-protection against rejection that leads you not to suggest meetings, lack of shared spaces, or simply the time it takes to build trust. Look at what you're doing — or not doing — that keeps the isolation in place.
How long does it take to feel at home in a new country?
There's no fixed timeline. It depends on many factors: whether you have a social network, whether you like the place, whether you're working on something that matters to you, your personal history. Some people feel at home in months; others take years. What matters is knowing that the process is normal and that initial discomfort doesn't predict how you'll feel later.
Can I feel gratitude and grief at the same time?
Yes. You can be grateful for what you gained by emigrating and deeply miss what you left behind. Those two feelings don't cancel each other out. Psychological flexibility lets you make room for that complexity without needing to resolve one of the two parts right away.
If you're going through this process and feel you need help unpacking what's really happening, a Therapy session can be a good starting point. In a session we can explore together what part of your discomfort belongs to the place, what part belongs to other areas of your life, and what decisions you actually have available.
This article does not replace the care of a mental health professional. If you're in crisis or having thoughts of self-harm, contact emergency services: 112 in Europe, 911 in Argentina, or your country's emergency line.