The Grief of Becoming

I moved to Canada 14 years ago.

Becoming Canadian is one of my proudest achievements. It wasn’t just a vacation. It was my first time travelling alone, my first time out of the country and my first time in a place I knew nothing about, had no connections and didn’t fully speak the language.

In Canada I found myself. The parts of me I didn’t know existed. The parts I felt free to explore and discover once I was far away from home and the judgements of people who knew me a certain way for my whole life.

In Canada I met the love of my life and spent years of building a life. We found out what it meant to merge two souls, two cultures, two upbringings into one wholesome life.

I love Canada.

I love being Canadian.

But becoming something new doesn’t erase what came before.

The Brazilian in me never disappeared.

Some days she’s quiet and fully amazed by the snowy winter land she lives in. Other days she misses Brazil with an intensity that’s difficult to explain to anyone who has never left your home culture.

It’s not only about missing a place, or a group of people, or a specific food. While I miss many places and people and food (many foods!) What I miss the most is a certain way of being. That cultural way of existing that is so different from place to place.

The type of culture that replenishes your soul and calms your nervous system.

It’s been ten years since my last visit.

Life happened. We were building careers, navigating a global pandemic, and spending years in an emotionally exhausting adoption process. Flights get expensive, vacation time feels so rushed - International travel stopped fitting the schedule.

And then one day turned into ten years.

The strange thing about being away for so long is that you grieve a version of it that no longer exists.

The underground clubs and barzinhos where you met friends have closed. Streets have changed. Family traditions have evolved. Friends have built lives that no longer include your everyday presence. And perhaps the hardest realization of all is this:

The version of you that belonged there no longer exists either. You have changed.

You no longer fit the life you left behind.

But you don’t fully fit the life you imagine from afar, either. Moving to a new country means leaving before you know who you’ll become.

You leave everything familiar because you’re following something bigger—love, opportunity, purpose, hope. You trade certainty for possibility.

And if you’re fortunate, you find exactly what you came looking for. I did.

I found a life I love. A husband who feels like home. A daughter who changed me forever. Peace. Purpose. Seasons I never imagined I would cherish. A country that welcomed me and became part of my identity. I would make the same choice again in a heartbeat.

But loving where you’ve arrived doesn’t erase the grief of what you left behind.

The two can exist together.

Maybe that’s one of the quiet truths of immigration.

You don’t spend your life choosing between who you were and who you’ve become.

You spend it learning to carry both with grace.