People move to a new country in search of a new life, in search of purpose, and in search of a way to build something that better reflects their values. But in chasing that dream, many of us forget the life we leave behind—especially our families. For someone who grew up in India, where family is the foundation of identity and belonging, this distance is not simply measured in miles. It touches every choice, every quiet moment. I often think about the paradox of parents who invest their savings to send their children abroad, giving them the chance to build prosperous futures, yet expect nothing in return. As the daughter who benefited from their sacrifices, I carry a deep unease: how could I ever repay such generosity, and how will I live with the fear of not being there when they need me the most?
I arrived in Canada in January 2020, full of plans and energy. The first two months were spent adjusting to a completely new world—the cold, the different rhythm of life, the feeling of anonymity in a city where I knew no one. I would wake up and feel the silence of my apartment, something I had never experienced back home. Before this move, even when I worked in another city after graduation, I could return to my hometown almost every weekend. I had the comfort of knowing that family was only a short trip away. But in this new country, that safety net disappeared overnight. Distance was no longer a few hours on a train; it became an ocean and a time zone away. I told myself these challenges would fade with time, that I would settle in, build friendships, and learn to belong. I was partly right—until the unexpected happened.
Three months into my master’s program, news began to circulate about a mysterious virus spreading with alarming speed. At first it seemed distant, an issue happening elsewhere. Then we were told that classes would move online temporarily. During that period I was also interviewing for an internship and received instructions to meet in person but maintain social distance. I still remember walking into that interview room, deliberately not shaking hands, exchanging cautious smiles, telling each other this would probably pass in a few weeks. We were wrong. Within days, everything changed. Lockdowns began. Workplaces and schools shut their doors. Grocery shopping meant waiting in long lines and hoping essential items were still on the shelves. The friends I had just begun to make were suddenly out of reach. My studies, my job search, my daily routine—everything shifted to the glow of a laptop screen. The excitement of starting a life in Canada began to feel like the worst decision I had ever made.
But beneath all those changes, the deepest fear was not about my own health or career. It was about my parents. Officials warned that older adults were the most vulnerable. My sister and I were both in Canada, and our parents were alone in a small town in India as cases exploded across Delhi and spread toward them. Each day I woke with the same thought: please let them stay safe. I prayed not for myself but for them. Before the pandemic, I considered myself independent and perhaps a little self-focused, but COVID turned that idea upside down. I worried constantly about their well-being, replaying questions I could not answer. What if they got sick? What if they needed me and I couldn’t reach them?
My parents were careful. They followed every guideline, made herbal drinks to boost immunity, and avoided unnecessary contact. Yet the emotional toll was undeniable. Months of isolation left them feeling anxious and, at times, depressed. For the first time they confessed how lonely they felt and how much they longed to have us with them. Some days they said that if life were truly at risk, they would rather spend whatever time remained with their children. Their words carried a quiet pain that stayed with me.
I began to imagine packing up and flying back. But the barriers were real and heavy. International travel was largely shut down, so even if I wanted to return, there was no guarantee I could. My career prospects back in India were uncertain, and I didn’t want to step back into the same job I had left. I had also invested heavily in my Canadian degree. Would I throw away that effort and expense? The questions swirled endlessly, but no answer felt right. In the end, I stayed. And every day, I hoped my choice wouldn’t become a regret.
Time passed and eventually the first fierce wave of the pandemic eased. My parents remained healthy, but the months of separation had left their mark. They had survived the virus but not the loneliness. Meanwhile, I began to carve out a life in Canada that I slowly learned to love. I built friendships that felt like family. I adjusted to the rhythm of a new culture. I found stability and even moments of joy. Yet not a day went by when I didn’t speak with my parents or think about them.
Living so far away requires a quiet compromise. I had to accept that for now my life would remain rooted in Canada, even while a large part of my heart stayed in India. I tried to bridge the gap in small ways—long video calls, frequent visits when travel reopened, sharing milestones and stories as if we were together. They delighted in visiting me, seeing the life I had created, tasting the independence they had made possible. But when they returned to their own home, the contrast was stark. They enjoyed the comfort and independence of familiar surroundings, yet a layer of bittersweet solitude lingered.
Years later, I still wonder about the future. How will I care for them as they age? Will they remain in India, or will circumstances push me to move back someday? I have no clear answers. Sometimes the weight of those questions feels overwhelming. But I’ve learned, slowly, to focus on the present—to make each call meaningful, to savor every shared moment, to stay connected even across oceans.
Choosing to live abroad is not a single decision made at the airport. It’s a choice renewed every day, in every phone call and every missed festival, in every memory of home that flashes unexpectedly. It is a privilege and an opportunity, but also a responsibility that never quite fades. I know there will be a day when distance feels heavier than opportunity, when my parents will need me in ways a video call cannot meet. I cannot pretend I’ll be ready for that day. But I hold on to the hope that the love and resilience we have built—across continents, time zones, and a global pandemic—will guide us when that moment arrives.
