Rebuilding Life, One Country at a Time

Moving across the world to pursue a PhD sounds, on paper, like a bold and inspiring decision. It carries the promise of intellectual growth, new cultures, and the kind of independence that shapes a person for life. But what often goes unspoken is the emotional cost—the quiet, persistent weight of anxiety, depression, and loneliness that can settle in when everything familiar is suddenly out of reach.

Before going further, it’s worth saying something I wish I had fully understood earlier: there are ways to navigate this, even if they don’t come naturally at first. Reaching out to others, encouraging yourself to attend social gatherings, learn to adapt to a new culture, speaking openly about how you feel, and seeking professional help when needed are not signs of weakness. They are, in many cases, what make the experience sustainable. Keeping everything inside might feel easier in the moment, but over time it deepens the isolation.

Leaving Chile was not just about distance. It was about stepping away from a language that felt like home, from friendships that didn’t require explanation, from family whose presence was woven into everyday life. Arriving in France brought excitement at first—new streets, new rhythms, the beauty of difference. But novelty fades faster than expected. What replaces it is often disorientation.

In those early months, anxiety shows up in subtle ways. It’s in the hesitation before speaking, in worrying about making mistakes in the simplest tasks. It’s in overthinking small interactions—did they understand me, or did I misunderstand them? Everyday actions that once felt automatic become small challenges that demand attention. Over time, that constant vigilance becomes exhausting.

Depression, when it creeps in, is quieter. It doesn’t always look like sadness. Sometimes it feels like disconnection—a sense that you are watching your life rather than living it. The things that once brought joy lose their colour. Motivation fades. Even the achievement of being in a PhD program, something that once felt monumental, can begin to feel strangely empty when there is no-one nearby who truly understands what it took to get there.

Loneliness, though, is perhaps the most persistent companion. It’s not simply about being alone; it’s about being unknown. You can be surrounded by people—in a lab, in a classroom, in a city full of life—and still feel invisible. Conversations remain on the surface. Cultural differences create small but meaningful gaps. Humour doesn’t always translate. Neither do emotions. The ways you used to build connection no longer seem to work in the same way.

This is where those earlier ideas stop being abstract advice and become necessary actions. Reaching out, even in small ways, begins to chip away at that sense of invisibility. Saying yes to a social event, even when it feels uncomfortable, creates opportunities for connection that don’t happen otherwise. And talking about how you feel—whether with friends, family, or a professional—turns something heavy and internal into something shared and more manageable.

Then, just as you begin to adapt, another move—to Australia. Another reset. Another round of introductions, new routines, unfamiliar systems. The resilience required starts to feel less like a strength and more like a constant demand.

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with living far from everything you know. It’s quiet. It shows up in missed birthdays, in family gatherings seen through a screen, in not being there when someone you love needs you. It’s in watching your friends build their lives, celebrate milestones, and grow their families from a distance. Life back home continues without you, and you slowly become a smaller part of it.

At the same time, you are becoming someone new—shaped by different places, perspectives, and challenges. That transformation is valuable, but it can also feel isolating. You may no longer fully belong to where you came from, but you don’t yet feel that you belong where you are.

So how do you begin to navigate this?

First, it helps to recognise that these feelings are not a personal failure. They are a natural response to a complex situation. Moving abroad, especially for something as demanding as a PhD, is not just an academic transition—it is a psychological one. You are rebuilding your identity in an environment that doesn’t automatically reinforce it.

Second, small anchors matter more than grand solutions. Simple routines—a morning coffee in the same place, regular walks, a weekly call with someone back home—create a sense of continuity. These rituals remind you that even in unfamiliar settings, there are things you can rely on.

Connection, though difficult, remains essential. It may not look the same as it did in Chile. Friendships might take longer to develop and may initially feel less deep. But investing in them matters. Sometimes connection begins not with shared history, but with shared vulnerability—the willingness to admit that you’re struggling, that you’re adjusting, that you don’t have everything figured out.

There will be days when the distance feels heavier. Days when the time difference makes communication difficult. Days when something small—a song, a smell, a phrase in Spanish—brings an unexpected wave of longing. These moments don’t mean you are failing to adapt. They mean you are still connected to where you came from.

And that connection is not something you need to lose in order to move forward.

Over time, something shifts. The unfamiliar becomes manageable. The language becomes less intimidating. You begin to notice small victories—handling a difficult conversation, forming a new friendship, finding a place that feels comfortable. These moments don’t erase the challenges, but they start to balance them.

More importantly, you begin to recognise your resilience—not as an abstract idea, but as something you practise daily. It’s in showing up despite low motivation. It’s in reaching out when it feels easier to withdraw. It’s in choosing to continue building a life in a place that once felt entirely foreign.

The experience of moving from Chile to France, and then to Australia, is not a simple story of success or struggle. It is both, constantly intertwined. It is the tension between loss and growth, between isolation and discovery.

And perhaps the most important realisation is this: feeling anxious, depressed, or lonely in this context does not diminish what you are achieving. If anything, it reflects the depth of the transition you are navigating.

You are not just pursuing a PhD. You are learning how to exist, adapt, and rebuild—again and again—in places far from where you started.

That is not a small thing.

And even if it doesn’t always feel like it, it is a form of progress, and believe it or not, in the end you will feel incredibly proud on how you were capable to surpass the greatest challenge you might have ever faced.