When you move across the world, friendship turns into something else entirely. You start looking for people who can hold space for the version of you that doesn’t have it all figured out. Someone who gets it when your voice catches mid-sentence. Someone who knows why certain silences feel heavy. At first, you don’t even know what you need, you just know everything feels unfamiliar, and you’re tired of carrying it all by yourself.

One day, someone makes you laugh in a parking lot or sends you a meme (someone probably came to your mind already) or offers to help carry something you were pretending wasn’t heavy. That’s how it starts.

This post is the result of two women - Mariele and me - connecting over this shared experience, while still getting to know each other. It’s been a pleasure to meet and work with her, and I’m excited knowing this is just the beginning of many more projects together!

Mariele Klering
While watching Ginny and Georgia season 3 this weekend, there was a scene where Georgia, the mom, is talking to her daughter before the first day at a new school. Ginny’s scared to go in, and Georgia comforts her by saying:

“You just need to find one friend. You can go through anything in life if you have one good friend.”

Of everything that happened in that one-hour episode, that’s the only line that stayed with me. One good friend.

I have been lucky. When I moved to the other side of the world seven years ago, I had friends waiting for me. Friends who spoke my language. Friends who stood by my side in quiet ways. They were there when I worked the most intense job of my life. They were there through a divorce. They were there when I found love again and they were there when I lost the most important person in my life, without getting to say goodbye. None of it would have been possible without them.

Maybe that’s why making new friends as an adult feels so hard, because I know how much it can matter.

A friend once told me: “you can’t expect all your friends to be the same kind of friend.”

At the time, I didn’t get it. So I asked her to explain.

“Well,” she said, “there are friends you call in a crisis. There are friends you go out with and only talk about light things, like, is anyone still doing Botox these days? There are friends who love going deep. And there are friends who will go on a Costco run with you on Boxing Day and say they’re having fun.”

If you are really lucky, you’ll find people who check all those boxes but that’s rare. And that’s okay.

We expect one person to meet every need, fill every silence, handle every meltdown, join every plan. Poor person. You’d need to send them a contract with terms and conditions.

But still, how do we even make new friends?

We don’t get to walk up to someone in the park and say, “Wanna be my friend?” the way we did as kids. Now we’re busy. We’ve got work, kids, partners, and if we’re lucky, a few stolen minutes for a walk or a workout.

So friendship ends up at the bottom of the list and that’s the real challenge.

Because when you are trying to make friends as an adult (especially as an immigrant), you’re not just looking for connection.

You have to be intentional. You have to send the message. Not the “we should hang out sometime” that dies in the group chat. The actual “Want to get a coffee next week?” kind.

And yes, that takes effort. Real effort. Which is hard when you’re already stretched thin and barely holding your routines together.

But here’s the thing no one says out loud: if we wait until life gets easier (spoiler alert: it doesn’t!!!), we’ll look up one day and realize we built a full life with no one in it.

Far from home, making friends stops being a bonus and starts being survival.

Fer Sanchez

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Before moving, I thought what I needed was structure: a good school, a decent routine, enough language to get by. What’s held me the most hasn’t been logistics, it’s been warmth.

The quiet, steady kind that shows up in WhatsApp groups, shared snacks, knowing glances, genuine meetups. The kind you don’t plan for but end up building your days around.

This time, we met without meaning to. In the soft chaos of a kids’ activity, surrounded by karate backpacks and those tiny pockets of maternal solitude while waiting for our children, a small conversation found its way through. First the laughter, then the messages, then the spontaneous plans.

Between the three of us (Linda, Mirela, and me). As if the heart had recognized something long before the mind caught up.

But the life changes all of the sudden and a few months ago, our friend (Mirela) who had become our soft landing told us she was leaving. Even though I was genuinely happy for her new path, the sadness was just as real.

Coffee tastes different now. The bench sits quieter without her laugh, her eyes, that energy that leapt at every little thing and stood tall for what mattered most.

“Avísame cuando llegues,” we would say, even after just a quick coffee.

Fun trips feel further away now but more ours, too.

I cried, of course I did. Not just because of the distance that opened up, but for everything that friendship taught me:

This isn’t just my story, it echoes. I’ve seen it, felt it, heard it in the voices of other women who’ve also migrated.

Something shifts in us when we’re far away, when routine gets heavy and uncertainty tightens its grip: the body seeks refuge in connection. It becomes almost instinct to reach out, build tribes, make space for one another.

It’s not just emotional, it’s physical. As if the body knew: closeness heals.

These friendships don’t just ease loneliness. They strengthen our mental health, our sense of belonging, even our will to stay.

Many of them begin on a bench, while waiting, not even realizing your life is about to change.

To the friendships that show up when you need them most and leave just when you wish they could stay a little longer: thank you for staying with me, even after goodbye.

We still send each other voice notes. Not every day, not always deep, just enough to say: I’m still here. A little update, a memory, a silly meme. It’s not the same, but it’s something.

Maybe that’s what friendship becomes when it grows across borders: a soft thread you keep choosing to hold.

Stories like Mariele’s and mine remind us: a good friend abroad is often the closest thing to home.

Who’s been that kind of anchor for you lately? 💭

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With love,

🤍 Mariele & Fer 💛

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I was never one to double guess myself. Not even as a teenager. I’d wear the weird outfit, make the impulsive haircut decision, say exactly what I thought in class. But somewhere along the way, clarity turned into over-context. I wasn’t doubting my choices I was overexplaining them.

There was no grand moment. No line drawn in the sand. Just a quiet shift (A slow unraveling of a habit I didn’t know I had). I had been narrating everything, as if I needed permission to feel what I felt.

Not to win an argument rather to feel allowed. Over time (maybe in a thousand small moments), I noticed something: The noise of explaining was drowning out my truth.

So I started doing less:
Less justifying.

Less softening.

More space.

More self-trust.

It worked!

A deep breath instead of a long explanation, a simple “I don’t want to” and a silence that used to be filled with apologies. I wasn’t becoming someone new. I was just returning to someone I had buried under expectations.

Some of my closest friends and siblings became mirrors. They showed me I didn’t owe anyone an explanation. That my choices could stand on their own. That a full sentence could be: “I chose this.” Letting go felt tender. I missed the Fernanda who worked so hard to be understood. But this version of me? She speaks slower. Trusts (herself) more. Doesn’t ask for permission to take up space.

She still doubts sometimes but she doesn’t negotiate her worth. If I could write a letter to the woman I was a year ago (the one always explaining herself) I’d say:

It’s not that heavy. The accountability you seek is already inside you. Doubt isn’t a flaw, it’s a signal. Keep going. You don’t need a map to know you’re heading in the right direction.

🟠 She Rebuilds isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about peeling back the noise until you hear yourself again.

Mini-Reflection: Are You Living Unapologetically?

Take 5 minutes. No filters. Just you and your truth.

1. Scan your week.

Write down a moment when:

• You overexplained yourself

• You justified something you’d already decided

• You felt guilt for prioritizing yourself

How did you feel?

☐ Guilt

☐ Fear of disappointing

☐ Longing to be understood

☐ Other: ___________

2. Ask yourself:

🧠 What need was beneath that explanation? (validation, protection, connection, safety...)

🧭 Would you do it the same way again? If not, rewrite it. One sentence. Firm. Clear. Curious. Yours.

3. Purposeful Close:

Say it out loud:

“Today, I give myself permission to ____________ without needing to explain it to deserve it.” (rest / say no / feel joy / sing in the shower / you name it!)

This isn’t about never explaining. It’s about no longer needing permission to be whole. Your inner clarity speaks louder than any argument and if this landed for you reach out to someone you trust.

Not to explain. Just to say: “You saw me even when I had no words.”

Thanks for being here. You matter more than you know, not because you explained, but because you’re here.

With love,
Fer 💛

*Still standing — from Elton John (Sing,the movie cover worth checking out!), a song that’s carried me through more than once.

Which song has made an impact in your life? (Just one, comment below)

There I was, passport in one hand, my son in the other, sweating through another line that didn’t move. Months of paperwork, embassy visits, contradictory instructions, and long queues wore me down before I even left Venezuela that August 2018. I was already tired when I got on the plane. But nothing prepared me for how invisible I’d feel.

I arrived in Portugal into a kind of limbo. No tax number. No access to healthcare. No official status. You don’t exist until the system says you do.

And even though the language sounded familiar, it quickly revealed itself as something else entirely.
“Puxe” didn’t mean “push,” it meant pull.
“Despachar” wasn’t “to dispatch.”
And “esquisito” didn’t mean “exquisite”, it means strange.

One misunderstanding at a time, I felt myself shrinking. Even our accents felt like too much.

That’s when migration guilt moved in.

Not because I did something wrong.
But because I couldn’t give my son the emotional steadiness he deserved while I was quietly rebuilding us from zero.
Because I smiled when people asked, “How are you settling in?” even though I didn’t know.
Because some nights, after work, parenting and survival, I’d still play with him, trying to make things feel normal when even brushing my teeth felt like strategy.

I was lucky to arrive with a job, that’s not the case for many around me.
Some of the strongest women I know had doors shut the moment they said, “I have a child.” No questions asked.

When you migrate, in the new country you’re from elsewhere, and in your country, you’ve become a stranger.

But here’s the truth I wish someone had told me earlier:

This guilt is not ours to carry.

It’s the result of systems that don’t recognize the invisible labor of immigrant mothers. Of policies that make us start from zero while demanding we smile, integrate, and perform strength.

As immigrant mothers, we’re expected to be grateful for the bare minimum.
Grateful we got out. Grateful to have papers. Grateful for work (even if it barely covers the bills). There’s this unspoken rule:

But no one talks about the void that follows. The cultural dissonance. The emotional exhaustion. The loneliness of building a life in a place that doesn’t quite see you.
We’re not just adapting to a new language we’re adapting to not being heard, not being known. Complete alliens.

And that’s the part migration stats don’t show.

We are not the exception. We are part of the picture. Whether we come from Venezuela, Brazil, Angola, or beyond we all carry more than anyone sees and yes, we’re also part of Portugal’s 15% of the population.

Let’s look at the numbers.

📊 The data:

– In 2024, about one third of babies born in Portugal (around 33%) were born to foreign mothers. Approximately 28,000 babies were born to immigrant mothers during this year.
Source: Instituto Nacional de Estatística, 2024

– Portugal now has over 1.5 million immigrants, about 15% of the total population.
Source: Serviço de Estrangeiros e Fronteiras, 2024

This isn’t just a personal struggle. It’s a societal one.

And if no one says it out loud, nothing changes. So here I am, saying it:

You are not broken.
You are not alone.
You are not failing.

It’s not resilience we lack it’s recognition.

🌱 What helps (not fixes, but helps):

– Naming the guilt. Talking about it. Refusing to carry it alone.
– Asking for help from spaces that see us as whole people not just mothers or migrants.
– Finding stories, content, and community that remind us we are not the only ones on a daily basis
– Texting a fellow mom. Not to ask how she’s coping, but how she’s really doing.

🌱 Resources:

– Ajuda de Mãe: Portuguese social solidarity association dedicated to supporting pregnant women and mothers who find themselves in vulnerable situations, such as immigrant and single mothers.
– SOS Voz Amiga: Free, emotional support helpline available to help anyone experiencing distress caused by loneliness, anxiety, and/or depression.
☎️ 213 544 545
– Janelle Holden: From Montana to Portugal award-winning journalist, life coach, and accidental expat.

Want to keep these stories close?
I write for inmigrants mothers and anyone building a life from the ground up.
Join with us to get the next one in your inbox, it’s free, and always real.

With love,

Fer.💛

She Rebuilds

For raw, resilient women ready to rebuild life, work and identity. From the ground up. Together.

By Fer Sanchez

I lay beside my son (Tiago) in our shared bed, a twin-sized reminder of how hard it is to separate when housing makes it nearly impossible. Portugal hasn’t made rebuilding easy (emotionally or logistically) but it sure has brought light to my (new) life, for that obrigada Portugal. There we were. He fell asleep fast. And I cried (big time).

Not from sadness exactly, but from something shifting deep inside. Most nights, it felt like he was carrying my weight. That wasn’t fair nor sustainable. But I kept going. I thought I was failing. What I was really doing… was grieving.

But She Rebuilds didn’t begin that night. It started long before, when I was pregnant and slowly realized the world expected me to give everything and without noticing I complied. It started the moment I knew that what I needed as a woman, a mother, a migrant, a human wasn’t being spoken aloud. No one had written it for me. So it stayed in my head. In my journals. In my body.

Over time, people showed up and held me gently, quietly even when I didn’t believe I could keep going. They didn’t fix it. They just stayed close enough to remind me: You can rebuild. Maybe not today. But soon. And little by little, I started to believe it too.

She Rebuilds is not a story of strength. It’s a story of surrender.
To truth.
To timing.
To the ones who showed up.
To the woman I was becoming even when I couldn’t see her yet.

And I know I’m not the only one. 58% of the women in our first survey said they feel guilty asking for help, even when they need it most. Because they’re mothering others. Because they’re trying to fix what the world keeps breaking. Because somewhere along the way, they were taught not to ask.

Women who are mothering in silence, fixing everything for everyone, and still holding their breath.
Women like you and me, tired of feeling alone inside their own head.

Compassion is something we grow together and She Rebuilds is a place where we gather to do just that.
🌱Week by week.
🌱Word by word.

If someone came up to you mind after reading and you think they are struggling please take two minutes and text or call to check in, just to say hi or forward this post. It will make a difference.

So, tell me, what are you carrying today?

With love,

Fer.💛