As of the fall 2024 semester, international students make up around 5% of the student body. As a percentage, it seems small. But, when you see it as 69 individuals – each of whom packed their entire life into two suitcases and flew across the world to embrace a new reality – it becomes something much greater.
For me, this journey started half a year ago, when I found myself not only adjusting to a new academic environment but also becoming the “representative” of my country, Mongolia. The moment you move to another country, you stop being seen as just an individual – you become a reflection of your homeland. This is especially true when you come from a lesser-known country.
For those unfamiliar with your culture, you are their first impression, their cultural ambassador. During my first few months here, I experienced a “honeymoon phase” where everything felt exciting, and I was just happy to be here. Nothing more, nothing less. Albion, or what I like to call the “city of peace,” with its empty roads and the squirrels running around, felt like a place I could easily fall in love with.
I enjoyed everything, not because it was perfect, but because it was all so new to me. The little details, the quietness, the simplicity – it all made me appreciate this fresh start.
But after a while, reality hit me. There was a constant comparison between Albion and my hometown, and the excitement I once felt started to fade. The newness of everything began to wear off, and I found myself drawing comparisons – whether it was the quiet streets of Albion to the bustling energy of my hometown or the small, peaceful moments here that felt lacking in the vibrancy I remembered.
I had to face the truth that, while Albion had its own charm, it wasn’t home. And with that realization, quietly but persistently, the homesickness crept in.
Even the things that once brought me comfort felt distant and hollow, like echoes of a life that had moved on without me. It wasn’t just that I missed Mongolia – it was that I missed a part of myself that existed in that place. The version of me that was comfortable in my culture, language and environment. Trying to return to that would be like trying to fit an old version of myself into a world I’ve already changed.
In Mongolian, home translates to “ger,” which can also mean a physical house. Until recently, I believed that the essence of home was rooted in the building itself. But right after I moved to the U.S., my family relocated to a new house. I don’t have many memories in that new space, but I knew deep in my heart that home wasn’t just the walls that sheltered me – but the people, the love and the everyday moments that made it feel whole.
I missed the warmth of a freshly made soup on a cold evening, the unconditional love of my family, my plushies that sat on my bed and the freedom of being entirely myself without having to explain or adjust for anyone else.
The truth I had to accept was that homesickness isn’t about going back – it’s about learning to live with the change and make peace with the absence. It’s about reconciling who I was with who I’m becoming.
Even if I could go back to Mongolia now, I would see my country, my home, through a different lens. The journey has transformed me. In that transformation, I realized that homesickness wasn’t just a burden – it was part of the process, a reminder of the connections and values that shaped who I am, even as I navigate this new world.
There were moments when the loneliness felt overwhelming – when I sat in a crowded dining hall yet felt worlds apart from the conversations around me, or when I longed for the effortless understanding that came with speaking my own language. But in those moments, I also learned that loneliness wasn’t just emptiness – it was space. Space to grow, to reflect and to build new connections that, in time, might feel like home too.
It’s a reminder that, while the road to adaptation may feel lonely at times, I’m not alone in this experience.
I’ve come to understand that it’s not something that completely fades away, nor is it something I can “fix.” It’s a reminder of where I came from and who I was before starting this journey.
I don’t try to run from it anymore, and I’m learning to live with it. It’s okay to feel it, and even better to acknowledge it. For me, homesickness isn’t a weakness – it’s proof of the transformation I’ve been going through. It shows how much I’ve connected to my roots and how far I’ve come from them. I think I’m starting to find a balance between honoring my past and embracing my present, and that’s what makes this experience all the more meaningful.
There’s an ancient Chinese saying:
“The man who returns from a journey is no longer the same man who left.”
And perhaps, that is the point of this journey after all.
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