10 years in Romania

The beginning

This past Sunday I marked 10 years in Romania. I don’t want to say that time has flown—it hasn’t. But I did think I would stay for only 3 years and then return to Peru. And Romania wasn’t necessarily the reason for I made that choice.

I won a scholarship for a master’s program funded by the Romanian Ministry of Education. Some expenses were covered, but most I paid myself. So my main motivation was the experience itself.

I had been searching for an opportunity like that for a long time, and the Peruvian government’s scholarship programs were out of my reach and offered no guarantee, even if I met the requirements.

Honestly, what I expected was wrapped in mystery and uncertainty. And at that time, those motivations felt strong enough.

I remember being on the bus in Lima, heading to work one morning, opening the email of acceptance into the program. The feeling was powerful—like I had achieved something.

First challenges

The hardest part was the cultural shock, which didn’t take long to appear: constantly feeling watched, being followed in stores as if I might steal something, the laughter every time I mispronounced a word, the confusion of how to greet people, the frustration of not understanding the language or the culture. A worldview that felt foreign. The conflict between what I thought I believed and what I thought I knew about life.

And then came the job search. That’s another story on its own.

Lessons and people

The most exciting part has been reaching 10 years. My hands shake as I write because I know the path I’ve walked to get here.

I used to think of a career ladder I had to climb and climb and climb. That this would give meaning to my journey. That it would justify my staying. That it would earn me recognition for “leaving” my country. For the delay in thinking and speaking in Spanish (you know… when you start asking «how do you say this?» or you start borrowing words and using the wrong conjugations and tenses).

I also felt shame and fear of achieving nothing and returning “empty-handed.”

There was more than one person who showed me things about life and about myself.

With someone I shared moments of singing at work while doing invoices. Dancing on a weekend as if worries didn’t exist. Sitting in a café away from the corporate world.

From someone I learned to snowboard. To read Immanuel Kant. What it means to speak my emotions and thoughts out loud. What it means to run away, but also what it means to return.

From someone else I learned tremendous resilience: to take pain calmly, let it stay until it passes, and if it comes back, to greet it.

From several incredible coworkers I learned not to be afraid to grow. To trust the process, my own superpowers. To protect my mental health.

Once I called my mother to tell her I couldn’t go on. And she told me I could always return—as long as I didn’t come back asking myself: could I have tried harder?

Belonging

I see Romania as my adoptive country, that much I know. This country has given me space to put a mirror in front of myself. And in return, I’ve given my strength. Endless physical and mental work.

Belonging feels like something that fluctuates. Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it isn’t.

I remember my first autumn night in Bucharest. My first night in Oradea with some Turkish students. My first winter. My first Christmas.

I remember my first cabbage rolls. My first shot of traditional Romanian alcohol (pălincă).

I remember all the nights I asked myself what would happen after those 3 years. And the days when I didn’t want to get out of bed.

I remember the days when I gained weight from eating Snickers. But also the days when I didn’t have enough money, and I went running so I wouldn’t have to think about it.

I remember the days lying in bed curled like a pretzel, thinking I would never get up and that things would never improve.

In all those moments I remember, I always received a message from someone, or a call. Or I had the company of someone who helped me see the future through different eyes.

Immigrants: mental health

My personal highs and lows are part of a reality shared by millions of immigrants worldwide.

The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that migrants and refugees have up to twice the risk of depression and anxiety compared to the general population【WHO†source】.
A meta-analysis in The Lancet Psychiatry (2017) found that the prevalence of depression among immigrants ranges between 15% and 20%, and anxiety between 9% and 16%【The Lancet Psychiatry†source】.
Risk factors include family separation, language barriers, discrimination, job insecurity, and lack of access to mental health services【WHO†source】.
Burnout is frequently reported among immigrants in precarious or high-demand jobs: long hours, unrecognized qualifications, or lack of support networks【WHO†source】.
Regarding suicide, European studies indicate that certain groups of immigrants have higher rates, especially in the first 5 years of residence, though this varies by origin and host country【The Lancet Psychiatry†source】.

After 10 years, I realize my story is not just personal. It’s part of a collective experience.

The data on immigrant mental health confirm that I am not alone in my fears, my sleepless nights, or my doubts about belonging. But they also show that surviving, staying, and learning to reconnect is already an act of resilience.

And that resilience, though sometimes silent, is also a form of belonging.

Thanks for being with me in this journey.