From Feeling Like a Stranger to Feeling at Home: One International Student’s Story

Hi! I’m Srikruti. I study physics and astronomy, love exploring cities, and get really excited about finding hidden cafés, meeting new people, and hearing stories from different cultures. If you’re new here and feeling a bit adrift, think of this article as a candid chat between friends.

Because not too long ago, I was standing exactly where you are.

Moving across the globe is a strange, disorienting paradox. One moment you are fueled by the adrenaline of a fresh start, and the next, you are paralyzed in a crowded room, wondering how everyone else inherited the invisible script on how to blend in. It is a universal vulnerability. Whether you crossed an ocean or just a provincial border, that sudden, jarring quiet of realizing you are entirely on your own hits exactly the same.

During my first few weeks in Toronto, I was convinced everyone else possessed a secret guide to belonging. People moved with absolute certainty. They knew which tables to claim, who to greet, and precisely where they were going. Meanwhile, I was glued to Google Maps, maintaining a fragile composure while convincing myself that eating lunch in isolation was simply a definitive part of my personality.

The hardest part wasn’t navigating the academic terrain. It was finding my people.

I remember a specific afternoon when the weight of it all caught up to me. I was frantically trying to locate my next lecture hall, completely turned around by the campus layout.

Frustrated and anxious, I ducked into a looming building that looked promising, only to find myself trapped in a labyrinth of identical, winding hallways. It felt like a physical manifestation of my entire university experience: trapped in a maze, entirely out of my depth.

Then, I spotted someone else wandering the exact same corridor, wearing the identical expression of quiet panic. We locked eyes, admitted we were both thoroughly lost, and ended up pooling our collective confusion to untangle the layout. Not only did we make it to class before the lecture started, but that shared moment of vulnerability sparked a genuine friendship. Today, they are still the person I hang out with between classes.

As an international student from India, every early interaction felt high-stakes, carried by an exhausting mental undercurrent. Should I initiate the conversation? Is my accent too pronounced? Will anyone understand the cultural references that shaped my childhood?

But belonging doesn’t arrive in a dramatic, cinematic breakthrough. It pieces itself together in quiet, unprompted increments. A spontaneous conversation during a city stroll. A classmate who chooses the desk next to yours two lectures in a row. Someone asking about your background, not out of polite formality, but out of genuine curiosity.

Slowly, those fleeting friction points transformed into anchor points.

Yet, the emotional trajectory of adapting to a new country is never a straight line upward; it is a rollercoaster of sharp peaks and sudden valleys. There were brutal days of profound homesickness. Days when the gray Toronto chill felt entirely incompatible with the warmth I grew up with. On those evenings, when the distance felt too vast to bridge over a brief video call, I would retreat to my kitchen and cook aloo paratha – a comforting Indian flatbread stuffed with spiced, mashed potatoes. As the aroma of cumin and toasted dough filled the small apartment, the physical distance to India seemed to shrink. That simple culinary ritual became a vital anchor, a reminder that acknowledging your roots isn’t a setback; it’s the fuel that allows you to branch out.

There were still days I felt acutely different, wondering if I was the solitary person who hadn’t figured out life’s choreography.

But somewhere between deciphering the transit grid, claiming a favourite corner in a local coffee shop, and structuring routines that felt entirely my own, a subtle shift occurred. The city shed its intimidating exterior. I stopped operating like a temporary visitor and started living like a local.

Looking back, the ultimate surprise wasn’t merely that the loneliness dissipated or that I built a circle of friends. It was confronting a version of myself I never would have encountered had I stayed within the safe perimeter of the familiar. The anxious student who arrived at the airport unsure of her footing gradually evolved into someone capable of instigating conversations, charting unfamiliar geography, and constructing a sense of home from scratch.

Perhaps belonging isn’t a destination you stumble upon. Maybe it is something you actively craft one conversation, one shared meal, and one small, courageous step at a time.

So, as you navigate your own first chapters here, I leave you with a few questions to carry with you: How can you reframe an unfamiliar space into an opportunity for a meaningful connection? What small, authentic ritual can you introduce to make this environment feel like your own?

And arguably the most exhilarating question of all: Who might you become if you finally give yourself permission to grow?