Immigration is a word people throw around easily, but the real experience is far more complicated than most realise. Somehow, the word immigrant has turned into something people avoid, whisper, or distance themselves from. A simple description of movement — of starting over, of building a life somewhere new — has become tangled with fear, politics, and stereotypes. Entire elections have been won on the idea that “outsiders” are coming, even when the reality is far more nuanced.
But beyond the headlines, I keep coming back to a simple question: Who gets to be called an immigrant — and who gets to avoid the label altogether?
Who Gets to Be Called an Immigrant?
One of the strangest things I’ve noticed is how differently people relate to the word immigrant. Some wear it with pride. Some reject it completely. And some apply it to others while quietly stepping out of the frame themselves.
It often happens with English‑speaking people who move abroad. They’ll say they “relocated,” “moved for work,” or “decided to try life somewhere new.” But rarely “immigrated.” Maybe it’s cultural familiarity. Maybe it’s privilege. Maybe it’s the leftover confidence of a colonial mindset. I don’t know.
But I’ve seen the irony up close. My husband — born in India, now a citizen — was called an immigrant in New Zealand by a British person who also wasn’t born or raised here. If both people moved here, why does only one carry the label?
It’s a reminder that the word “immigrant” isn’t just about geography. It’s about perception, power, and who society decides belongs.
The Unequal Experience of Moving Abroad
There’s a subtle layer to immigration that people rarely acknowledge out loud, but many immigrants feel immediately: the way assumptions shape how you’re seen. Two people can move to the same country, with the same qualifications, the same dreams, the same intentions — and be treated completely differently based on their accent, their skin tone, or simply where their passport was issued.
I’ve seen it with my husband. He’s educated, fluent in English, hardworking — yet he is often the one labelled “the immigrant,” even by people who also moved here. Somehow their move is seen as normal, expected, even admirable — while his is questioned or highlighted. It’s not always loud or aggressive. Often it’s subtle — a look, a tone, a hesitation. But it shapes the immigrant experience more than people realise.
And then there’s the “adventure” narrative. People love to talk about the excitement of moving abroad — the new opportunities, the fresh start. And yes, those things exist. But for many of us, the reality is heavier. We switch languages daily. We rebuild careers from scratch. We take exams to prove what we already know. We start at the bottom, even when we were respected professionals back home.
Meanwhile, others describe their move as “challenging” because they had to adjust to a new supermarket or find a new GP. And I don’t want to dismiss their experience — moving is hard for anyone. But the weight is not distributed equally. Some people continue the same life they had back home. Same job level. Same salary bracket. Same language. Same social circle. They land softly.
Others land hard.
Many immigrants from non‑Western countries start in blue‑collar jobs despite having degrees. Some get stuck there, not because they lack ambition, but because of the vicious cycle of “no local experience, no job.” The starting line is not the same for everyone.
Visa Inequality and Passport Privilege
The world is not equally open to everyone, and the difference starts long before you pack your bags.
I remember when my husband and I travelled to the US to visit his brother. My visa application took maybe 15–30 minutes online, and I received approval half an hour later. That was it — the privilege of an EU passport.
My husband had to book an appointment at the US embassy a month in advance, gather piles of documents, print everything, and go in person. He forgot one paper, so he had to book another appointment — another month of waiting. Same trip, same purpose, completely different process.
And when it comes to living abroad, the gap widens even more. People from first‑world countries can often move abroad with minimal restrictions. Work and holiday visas are available to them without quotas, without lotteries, without fear of missing out. They can simply decide to go.
For countries like Hungary, the picture is different. We have work and holiday visas, but with restrictions: you can’t work at the same place for more than three months, and there are only 100–200 spots available. It’s competitive, stressful, and uncertain. And for many countries, even that option doesn’t exist. People study abroad instead — paying much higher fees than locals, taking loans, or relying on family savings. It’s an investment with enormous pressure and risk.
The journey begins long before the plane takes off.
When Your Qualifications Don’t Travel With You
Another painful part of immigration is watching your professional identity shrink at the border. I’ve met people who were doctors back home but had to work as nurses or caregivers abroad. Engineers who became technicians. Teachers who became teacher aides. Accountants who ended up in admin roles.
It’s not because they aren’t qualified. It’s because their degrees aren’t recognised, or the exams are expensive, or the process takes years, or — if we’re honest — because some countries trust certain nationalities more than others.
Starting from the bottom is hard enough. Starting from the bottom after you’ve already proven yourself once is a different kind of heartbreak.
The Financial Reality No One Talks About
Coming from a second‑ or third‑world country adds another layer of complexity. I remember saving money for years — enough for a deposit on a flat back home. But I needed that money for visa conditions, and once I arrived in New Zealand, it shrank dramatically. Prices were higher, the currency weaker, and for the first few months I wasn’t working. Every dollar hurt.
We moved abroad for the promise of a better life — higher salaries, more stability, maybe the chance to buy a home someday or support family back home. But the world has changed. When we visited India recently, some of my husband’s friends who stayed there were earning the same as us, working for startups or overseas companies without ever leaving home.
It makes you wonder: Do our sacrifices still pay off?
Sometimes life feels like a video game where every decision leads somewhere, but you only find out later whether it was the right move.
The Emotional Cost of Distance
In the beginning, the homesickness is overwhelming. You miss your old world so much it physically hurts. You miss your routines, your friends, your language, your favourite café, the way your family laughs at the dinner table. You miss the version of yourself that existed there. And yet, you can’t act on any of it. You can’t just go home. You have to stay, adjust, survive.
Distance changes everything. Moving from Hungary to the UK is still hard, but it’s a two‑ or three‑hour flight. You can go home for a weekend if you need to. But when you move to the other side of the world — New Zealand, Australia — the distance becomes a wall. The flights are long and expensive. You don’t go home whenever you want; you go when you can afford it, when you can take leave, when life allows it.
And then there’s the fear of something happening at home. During the pandemic, that fear became reality for many. My husband lost his father during that time and couldn’t go home. I watched him struggle with grief, guilt, and the lack of closure. There was nothing he could do. That’s the part of immigration no one prepares you for — the moments you can’t get back.
This is the emotional tax of immigration. It doesn’t matter where you come from — this part is universal.
Living Between Two Worlds
At some point — quietly, without noticing — you realise you’ve become someone who lives between two worlds. Not fully from the place you left. Not fully from the place you arrived.
Your memories belong to one country, your routines to another. Your heart stretches across time zones. Your identity becomes a bridge — sometimes shaky, sometimes beautiful.
It’s confusing, yes. But it’s also a kind of richness. A life lived in two languages, two cultures, two versions of yourself.
So What Is Immigration, Really?
When people talk about immigration, they often talk about numbers, borders, or politics. But behind every immigrant is a story shaped by privilege, distance, sacrifice, and hope. Some people move abroad and continue the same life they had. Others rebuild everything from nothing. Some can go home anytime. Others wait years.
And yet, despite all the inequality, all the bureaucracy, all the distance, people still choose to start over. Not because it’s easy, but because they believe in the possibility of something better.
Maybe that’s the real story of immigration — not the struggle, not the politics, but the quiet courage of building a life between worlds, and finding beauty in the space where two homes meet.
If you’re at the beginning of your own journey, you might find this helpful — I wrote about what really worked for me when I was trying to make friends abroad.
