The Weight We Carry

Images taken around the Hague.

One of the most challenging aspects of living abroad is being away from friends and family. It’s a complicated reality — one that sneaks up on you in small, quiet ways. No matter how adventurous or independent you might be, there’s always a longing for comfort and familiarity. That warm, fuzzy feeling or sense of belonging is often found in the people we call “home.”

For me, that includes two best friends, my parents, and an extended family who I’m lucky enough to say make up that idea of home. Yet, my husband and I feel compelled to leave that behind — drawn to explore, to experience something different.

This relationship with family becomes even more layered once you have a child. Suddenly, you begin to ask questions like: Where do we want to raise our family? Will we have support? What are we giving up? What might we gain by being far from loved ones?

While I absolutely crave the support and closeness of our people, I’ve also come to realize that I’m seeking something else too — discomfort. Or rather, growth through discomfort. I want to be at ease with the unfamiliar if it means that our lives are fuller, richer, and more open to what the world has to offer. I want to explore new cities, shop in unfamiliar markets, and learn the rhythms and rituals that are ordinary to others.

Of course, there are growing pains that come along with the territory. Paperwork, cultural misunderstandings, unexpected costs. But with each challenge comes the chance to stretch, adapt, and learn.

Still, it’s tiring to always be resilient. The hardest part for me? Finding your people.

Even so, little pockets of community do start to emerge and often when you least expect it. Sometimes it’s in the way strangers offer kindness. Like that moment in a bookstore café in The Hague, struggling to strap my daughter to my back.

Let me explain.

My husband and I started experiencing back pain at the ripe age of twenty-nine. Our “why” was simple: a 25-pound bundle of joy named Zosia. If you’re a parent, you know that carrying a child is constant, physical work. From room to room, up and down stairs, in and out of the car. Even when they fall asleep, you become their bed.

At ten months, Zosia is learning to stand, grabbing at anything within reach — tables, chairs, curtains, even my legs. As much as we can avoid it, we do not let her roam public floors, so she is almost always in a stroller or carrier. But, Zosia wants to see the world. Often, she watches people intently, a trait that doesn’t go unnoticed by those we meet. Her curiosity is open and steady. She isn’t quick to warm, nor is she easily put off by unfamiliar faces. I often wonder if this quiet fascination with people and places will stay with her as she grows.

That afternoon in the café, Zosia was clearly ready for a nap. I knew she wouldn’t settle in her stroller. What usually soothes her is being close, tucked against me in the baby sling, our “kangaroo pouch.” It used to be second nature to wear her on my chest, but now, with her growing size, it’s becoming more of a physical strain. These days, back carrying is our go-to. The problem is that I still haven’t quite mastered the art of getting her up there on my own.

Still, I tried.

In public, flustered, juggling a wriggly, overtired baby began to fuss. The café, filled with quiet bookstore browsers, suddenly felt like a stage.

That’s when I gave in. Maybe — just maybe — it would be easier to ask for help.

I thought back to my college days as a barista. I would have readily responded to help a parent in this exact situation — if only they asked. Maybe I just needed to extend the invitation.

I gave in.

The moment I asked, the barista jumped into action. She didn’t hesitate or judge. Together, we figured it out. Zosia was curious about this new actor, watching intently as we worked together to get her settled. Once secured on my back, she was calm again.

That small gesture stayed with me.

Community, I’ve realized, isn’t always a permanent fixture. Sometimes it’s fleeting — a moment of connection between strangers. But it counts.

Living abroad, it can be easy to retreat. To avoid the awkwardness of asking. To assume no one will understand you, linguistically or emotionally. But often, people do want to help. They just need to be asked. And sometimes, the first step toward building community is allowing yourself to be vulnerable enough to ask for help.

It’s not easy to always be the outsider, the foreigner. I don’t always know the language. I’m constantly navigating new systems, hoping someone will meet me halfway. But that’s what connection is — a give and take. A willingness to meet each other in the middle.

One quote I often return to when I’m afraid to ask for help is from Benjamin Franklin: “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” I’ve found that friendship — even the seedling kind — begins in vulnerability.

And as much as it can feel exhausting to keep putting yourself out there, the rewards — a quiet moment of support, a smiling stranger, a happy baby nestled close — are more than worth it.