D was adjusting to life in a new country — not just a new city or neighborhood, but a whole new culture, language, and rhythm of life. As her partner, I wanted her to feel at home — not just with me, but in the world around us. So I tried, again and again, to help her build connections — friendships that might root her here, give her something of her own.
Early on, I suggested she take Arabic classes. It made sense — she was already studying languages online for her second bachelor’s degree, and I thought meeting other learners might help her connect with people who were also navigating something unfamiliar. But she hesitated. She said it would be too much to manage alongside her studies. I respected that — but I didn’t stop trying to find ways for her to feel less alone.
One day, while shopping for home appliances, I met a local shop owner — a warm, friendly man. D called me while I was there, and I answered in Spanish. He was surprised and asked, “Your wife speaks Spanish too?” I said yes, and he responded, “My wife is from Colombia! We should introduce them!”
So we did. But it didn’t last long. D quietly put an X on that friendship — maybe because of age, perspective, or just a feeling she couldn’t explain. I didn’t push her. I understood how hard it was to force a connection that didn’t come naturally.
Later, I came across a Ukrainian influencer living in our country — married to a local, well-adjusted, and active in the expat community. I followed her page for a while, thinking they might get along. When the time felt right, I encouraged D to send her a message. “You have nothing to lose,” I told her. “If she ignores it, no big deal. If she responds, it could be the start of something good.”
D sent the message. It took weeks, but the woman finally replied. They chatted back and forth, then met for coffee. Things clicked — for a little while. Eureka. But like the last one, this friendship faded too. D found something off-putting — something small but enough for her to pull away.
Eventually, I convinced her to try the Arabic classes after all. We signed her up at the local university. I walked her into her first class, breaking the ice for her when nerves got the better of her. I stayed just long enough to make sure she wasn’t alone, then left her in the hands of her classmates. I told her to call me when she was done so I could pick her up.
It took a few days, but she started connecting with people. Slowly, she became part of the group — students from across Europe and the U.S., many of them in the same boat: far from home, trying to belong somewhere new. The program even organized weekend trips around the country, and she joined in eagerly — sometimes inviting me along. I met her friends once, and I was happy to see her surrounded by laughter, by people who seemed to accept her.
She even hosted a dinner for them during Ramadan — asking my mom for help preparing traditional dishes. I offered to stay at my parents’ house so they could have the house to themselves. They had a girls’ night, watched a movie in our Media Room, laughed late into the night. I was glad she’d found something real, even if it was temporary.
Something shifted in her during Ramadan. She started dressing differently — modest, loose clothing. She began praying more regularly, joining her friends at the mosque whenever she could. She was adapting — not just to the culture, but to the people in it.
But these friendships were never meant to last. Most of them were exchange students — passing through, here for a season before returning home. And as expected, when the time came, most of those connections faded.
Five out of six friendships slipped away.
And I couldn’t help but wonder… what was it about D that made it so hard to keep people close? Was it something she did — a pattern of pulling away before things could deepen? Or was it simply that she was searching for something she hadn’t yet learned how to name?
I still don’t know the answer.
BPD Chronicles 