When I received the acceptance letter to study at Surrey, it felt like a dream come true. I was filled with – idea of independence, new opportunities, and an entirely different world ahead. What many people don’t tell you, however, is that beyond the surface-level excitement lies a deeper, more complex reality. Especially as someone who is the first in their family to pursue education overseas, the transition can be disorienting. While there are many brochures about academic excellence and travel experiences, few conversations prepare you for the financial responsibilities, cultural nuances, and emotional turbulence that follow.
One of the earliest and most subtle shocks I encountered was culinary. Something as simple as the taste of spices highlighted how different this new world was from home. Paprika here, for instance, tasted surprisingly bland compared to the robust, smoky flavor I was used to. Spices like cardamom and cinnamon—essential to many dishes I grew up with—felt underwhelming, almost diluted. This may sound trivial, but it made me appreciate just how special and unique the flavors back home were. These small disappointments eventually became gentle reminders of what I left behind and inspired me to carry bits of home with me, whether it was bringing millet flour in my suitcase or learning how to cook chapati and pilau with the limited ingredients available here.
Financially, the shift was even more jarring. Converting my local currency to pounds was not just a mathematical exercise—it was an emotional one. Every purchase felt like an expense in three currencies: the actual price in pounds, the converted amount in my local currency, and the unspoken cost of leaving home comforts behind. The habit of constantly calculating what each item would cost back home became draining. At some point, you have to let go of the conversion mindset and accept that this is your new financial reality. But adjusting doesn’t come easily. There are days when your budget stretches painfully—when £20 has to last you two weeks. You learn discipline not just by choice, but by necessity.
Independence abroad comes with a heavy side of responsibility. There’s a mental load that accompanies managing your finances, academics, and emotional well-being. For many of us, back home, financial decisions were often shared or buffered by family. Here, it’s entirely on you. You learn to ask yourself hard questions like, Is this purchase necessary? Can I really afford to go out tonight? It’s not just about budgeting—it’s about learning how to say no to yourself in a healthy way. That, too, is a form of self-care.
Then there’s the weather. No one warns you how suddenly the cold creeps in. One evening, you’re enjoying a sunny stroll, and the next morning, the temperature has dropped to 4 degrees. Darkness falls earlier and earlier until your evenings feel like midnight by 4 p.m. This change isn’t just environmental—it’s emotional. You find yourself more fatigued, less enthusiastic. Only later do you discover the reason: a vitamin D deficiency caused by the lack of sunlight. It’s a strange kind of seasonal identity shift, where the weather subtly dictates your mood, energy, and even sense of self.
On top of that, the concept of daylight saving time felt surreal. The clock jumping back an hour overnight—1:59 suddenly becoming 1:00—was something I had only read about. But experiencing it firsthand made me acutely aware of how time, like culture, is deeply contextual and often taken for granted. These moments, though small, stack up. They make you feel like a stranger not just in a new land, but sometimes even in your own skin.
Culturally, the contrast can be sharp, especially for students coming from conservative backgrounds. There’s a level of freedom here—particularly in how people express themselves—that can be both liberating and unsettling. It challenges your assumptions and forces you to confront questions about your identity, values, and sense of belonging. Sometimes, it even leads to an identity crisis, as you try to reconcile the person you were at home with the person you’re becoming abroad.
This is where community becomes essential. Joining cultural societies, or even starting your own, becomes more than just a social activity—it’s a lifeline. Speaking your home language with someone, sharing a familiar dish, or reminiscing about shared childhood memories can be grounding. It’s not just about nostalgia; it’s about survival.
In the end, living abroad teaches you that while the world is vast, your roots matter. There’s no manual that prepares you for the emotional, financial, and cultural intricacies of this experience. But with time, discipline, and community, you begin to adapt—not by erasing where you came from, but by weaving it into where you’re going.
