I never really wanted to leave the city I grew up in — I loved Moscow deeply, my whole life was nicely arranged there, and it was a life I genuinely enjoyed. I certainly wasn’t asking the universe for a dramatic plot twist. But never say never: one day I found myself packing up and moving to the Netherlands.

The decision felt right, but the emotional journey was far less straightforward — I went through a full spectrum of feelings before I finally found my ground in a new country. Here is how the transition hit me.

My move was a natural outcome rather than a dramatic escape: I met my husband and eventually we decided to settle down in his home town. I thought I was more or less prepared for life in Amsterdam — I had been there many times, absolutely adored the city, and had a supportive family doing everything they could to help me settle in.

At first, everything was genuinely exciting. New life, routines, culture, people — all in the setting of those fairytale gingerbread canal houses. I was curious, eager to explore, and happy to absorb it all. I didn’t spend a second thinking about the flip side, which, of course, arrived later.

The more I settled into the new life, the more I saw just how different it was from my previous reality — on every possible level.

Fellow expats generously showering me with local stereotypes and their own tribulations didn’t help either, so in the beginning I shaped quite a judgmental attitude: so many things were better at home.

And while you do eventually get used to most of it, trying to function like a normal person in a new ecosystem causes you a whole different kind of emotional damage.

For a long time, I clung to the illusion that I could live between two countries, holding onto as much of my old life as possible.

In the Netherlands, I recreated familiar comforts with stubborn dedication: working in my native language, socialising with people from similar backgrounds, cooking Russian dishes with my mum providing Zoom instructions, and having my nails done exclusively by Eastern European technicians. It was my way of staying connected to who I was — by quietly resisting integration.

Then comes the stage no one warns you about. As you absorb the new culture and its codes, you spot similarities with your own (which feels comforting), but the differences become even more obvious — and that is when homesickness hits properly.

I struggled with the fact that most people around me didn’t share the same mentality or understand the tiny, often unspoken things that shaped me — traditions, language, humour, culture. What was instantly understood back home suddenly required subtitles and context. Sometimes it made me feel like a slightly confused alien.

I missed everything: food, fast and competent service, and even silly things like wrapping paper you can only buy in Russia. The lack of snow in winter made me disproportionately upset. And that is before even mentioning missing my family, my friends, and all the small rituals my old life was built on.

It all hit me even harder because for the first seven months I couldn’t go back — I wasn’t allowed to leave the country while waiting for paperwork. Meanwhile, life back home continued unbothered. Big milestones happened without me — like my best friend having her first child — and I couldn’t be there. It felt like life was happening elsewhere, and everything I had built by 29 and valued deeply was slipping through my fingers.

Reading all this back may sound dark and dramatic, but the truth is my life during this time was still comfortable, supported, and safe. I never had to navigate everything alone — it was simply a new life, and it was never going to look like the old one.

Accepting that was the turning point. I stopped treating my time in the Netherlands as something temporary, opened my mind to change, and pushed myself out of my own biases. I built a new routine, started learning Dutch more seriously, shifted to the international market, and allowed real experiences to overwrite the assumptions I had carried with me.

But there was another layer — as you adapt, something odd happens. You adjust enough to blend in abroad, yet too much to be fully understood the same way back home. You start catching yourself doing things the Dutch way, and people back home look at you like you have developed a mild personality glitch. My pace, attitude, priorities, expectations — all quietly changed. Not dramatically, but just enough to make me feel slightly out of sync everywhere.

It is a strange in-between space where you are trying to piece together who you are now, using fragments from two cultures that don’t naturally overlap.

For a while, it felt like an identity crisis that makes you constantly adjust invisible settings in your head so you don’t feel misplaced in either environment. But eventually, I realised there is a sweet spot. You stop choosing sides. You simply make room for both.

Life between two worlds actually helped me rebuild a deeper connection with my own cultural DNA. When you are removed from everything familiar, you start noticing not only what shaped you but why it matters — the mentality and humour you grew up with, the rituals, traditions, the instinctive reactions. You appreciate it more, somehow. Distance has a funny way of sharpening those details.

At the same time, living abroad — especially in a melting pot like Amsterdam — stretches you. You open your mind a little wider. That mix of holding on and letting go is what glued me back together: knowing where I come from, but also allowing space for where I am now.

My own experience reshaped me in many ways, but the cultures I moved between were still relatively close. I couldn’t help wondering what it’s like when the contrast is far more dramatic. So I asked Dubai resident Lava Ilieva to share her story of moving from Bulgaria to the UAE.

"I came to Dubai fifteen years ago completely by accident. My mum, an acrobatics coach, was invited to work for the first artistic gymnastics company opening here, and because I had seven years of rhythmic gymnastics behind me, they suggested I come along to coach kids. So, in 11th grade — not even graduated yet — I left Bulgaria with permission to return only for exams. I didn’t know much about Dubai at the time, so everything felt new and surprising.

My first employer provided accommodation and transport, but the lifestyle was very structured, and I didn’t have much independence in the beginning. Business Bay was almost empty back then, and without a car the city felt huge. Before signing my contract, I met a violinist from Moldova who told me I could earn far more freelancing — modelling, event work, performing. That completely shifted my perspective. I decided not to sign, offered to repay my visa and ticket, and took a chance on freelancing. It turned out to be the best decision.

I built a career as a freelancer, and during one hostess job at Gulf Food I met an Indian businessman who later offered to sponsor my university studies. Thanks to him, I completed three years at Esmod, studying fashion design and pattern-making — something I never imagined for myself.

Socially, Dubai was very different from what I was used to. 15 years ago, the city didn’t have the creative platforms and events it has now. I was 18, most people around me were much older and working full-time, and it was rare to meet anyone my age. For the first five years, most of my friendships were with people 10–15 years older, and I often stayed home rather than go out.

My sister tried living here too when she was 15, but her embassy school had only one other student in her class. No community, no friends. After a year she said she couldn’t do it anymore, so she and my dad moved back to Bulgaria. She finished school there, studied acting, and eventually returned to Dubai years later when the city had already changed.

For me the loneliness was real, but I visited home often, and my family visited us, so I wasn’t deeply homesick. But there were moments when I wondered if I should move elsewhere. Around four or five years ago, I burned out from modelling — I was working two or three jobs a day, constantly being on the backstage or in hotel ballrooms. I felt disconnected from nature and from anything real. Everyone was networking, acting in certain ways to get opportunities, and I was tired of it. So I travelled for a while: the Netherlands for a retreat, then Bali, Portugal, Sweden, and Istanbul. That break helped me understand what I actually needed.

When I returned, I moved next to Kite Beach, and that changed everything. Now I bike there every day, sit on the sand, watch the moon. It grounded me in a way nothing else did.

Today I can confidently call Dubai home, mostly because of friendships, family, and the fact that I designed my life here in a way that keeps me balanced. I know now I could never live high up in a tower again — I need the beach, the air, the grounding.

Culturally, I have adapted in many ways. After 15 years, my habits and references blend multiple cultures, and most of my friends are long-term expats or people who grew up here, with similarly mixed identities. What took time was adjusting to the deeper patterns — every culture has its own family dynamics and generational traditions — but over the years I have learned to navigate those with more understanding.

And on a lighter note: Dubai has every cuisine in the world except Bulgarian. Not one Bulgarian restaurant in all these years. I have brought friends to Bulgaria who fell in love with the food — one DJ from Dubai even extended his stay just to keep eating — yet somehow we still don’t have a single Bulgarian spot here. There is Bosnian, mixed Balkan, everything… just not Bulgarian."