Life Without a Car: Is It Really Possible?

     Navigating friendships as an immigrant: why connection feels different and why it matters. Finding your people in a new country can feel both magical and deeply lonely. Here, one immigrant shares the real ups and downs of friendship abroad, from missed birthdays to unexpected bonds that feel like home. Those early days after arriving were a blur, full of paperwork and unfamiliar grocery brands and a city map I couldn’t fold back the right way. But underneath all the logistics, what I craved the most was a friend. Not just someone to swap memes or ask for directions, but one of those friendships where you can sit in silence together, no explanations required.

     I guess the loneliness crept in quietly, in the way I stared too long at photos of family gatherings back home, or when I hesitated before texting someone local, unsure if our accents or pop culture references would line up. At first, it honestly felt like the rules of making friends had all changed. Back home, the ritual of sharing tea, someone showing up unannounced, laughter echoing down the hallways it was effortless and grounded in years of shared history. Here, the invitations seemed more polite, schedules busier, everything planned and penciled in weeks ahead. I never realized how comforted I felt by my old, messy, spontaneous circle until every coffee date here felt like a formal event rather than the easy chaos I missed.

     Eventually, though, I started to notice small sparks of familiarity in new places. A neighbor bringing over soup when I was sick, a classmate staying late after everyone else had left, just to ask how I was doing. I’d been so preoccupied with searching for my ‘old’ version of friendship that I almost missed the new ways it was finding me. It was humbling, honestly. There’s beauty in these careful beginnings, in the gentle way strangers become companions simply by showing up, again and again. I learned that vulnerability isn’t always about oversharing, but sometimes just admitting you’re homesick, or that you miss your mom’s cooking, or that you’re still getting used to the rain. That’s when the doors started opening, slowly, as if everyone else had been waiting for someone to crack first. We found common ground in the weirdest places: complaining about public transport, celebrating tiny milestones like finding our favorite snacks at the corner shop, telling childhood stories that needed a lot of explaining but always ended in a laugh. Friendships here felt lighter at first, like scarves rather than thick winter coats, but over time, they grew warmer. I realized that the expectation to find one person who understood everything was unrealistic, and instead, I started to appreciate each friend for what they brought into my life. One taught me how to order at a local café, another texted me memes late at night, and a third just let me vent about missing home with no judgment at all.

     The truth is, friendship as an immigrant requires patience with yourself and forgiveness for the awkward moments. There are birthday parties missed because of distance, holidays spent with people who don’t know all your stories yet, and calls home that tug at your heart. But there’s also unexpected joy in building something new, in laughing about the accent you’re picking up, or in finding someone whose grandmother also makes soup on cold days. Sometimes I still feel the ache of old friendships an ocean away, but I also carry a quiet pride for the ones I’ve slowly built here. The path to belonging is rarely linear, and some days it feels like you’re starting over more than you’d like to admit. But every cup of coffee shared, every quiet understanding, every inside joke born of mispronounced words becomes a thread that weaves a new home.

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