Mental Health Blog

Do you have personal experiences of immigration and migratory grief?
 

My father was fortunate to immigrate to Canada with most of his siblings and parents (Inay and Tatay), while my mother and I remained in the Philippines until our sponsorship was approved. We reunited as a family in 1996. I was three—too young to understand what was happening, too young to remember. What I know of that time was pieced together from stories shared by the ates and kuyas I met at church.

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When I ask my dad about our migration, he mentions the family farm we left behind. We laugh at the absurdity of that alternate reality. “You’d be washing pigs… riding carabao,” he jokes, smiling. As naturalized citizens, we find joy in the thought, but in the realm of migratory grief, such recollections often carry the weight of loss.

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For me, the loss was in inheriting a dream that wasn’t mine. My migration was decided for me, involuntary like most children who migrate. Every choice felt like an answer to an unspoken question: Was I honouring the sacrifices that brought me here? Success wasn’t just personal—it felt like a duty, a way to prove the journey was justified. What career would honour the act of leaving home? What path would justify walking away from the Philippines? My parents never pushed me toward a specific career, but they did require me to explain my choices. To this day, articulating my desires is a fear-inducing experience. The more I was asked, the less certain I became.

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By high school, I felt like I was canoeing without an oar. My dreams weren’t entirely mine—they were shaped by the echoes of expectation, by the invisible boundaries of what would make migration ‘worth it.’ Yet, despite the weight of those expectations, Toronto grounded me. It wasn’t just home; it was a reflection of who I was. The familiar streets, seeing my Filipino friends and family at least twice a week, the mix of Tagalog and English in passing conversations—these things made me feel known. Place is more than just geography; it’s a container for identity. Even when I questioned who I was, I never had to question where I belonged.

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My parents knew I wouldn’t be a nurse, but beyond that, I had no direction. I was drawn to history and art, but I couldn’t explain to my parents how those degrees would put food on the table. I even considered carpentry, but I lacked the conviction to pursue it. It was bad enough that I wasn’t going into business or the sciences—university wasn’t just encouraged; it was expected.

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Eventually, I left Toronto for Ottawa to pursue a BA in Sociology. That, too, became an unexpected experience of migratory grief. Everything familiar—my family, my daily routines, the sense of belonging I took for granted—was gone. I had always assumed identity was something internal, something I carried within me. But in Ottawa, I felt rootless, as if distance from my community had stripped me of something essential. Suddenly, I was just Charlene from Toronto, fumbling through social interactions, overwhelmed by loneliness, crying over how much harder life had become.

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The heartbreak deepened when I realized that home was no longer home in the way I had left it. The harmony and regularity I had with my friends had all but evaporated while I was away, to the point where visits back felt more isolating than comforting. I had left in search of something—education, independence, maybe even a sense of self—but I returned to something unrecognizable. It was the first time I understood how place can be both grounding and objectifying—rooting us in belonging while also defining us in ways beyond our control.

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And yet, despite the ache of loss, I couldn’t express that sadness. How could I struggle when my parents had done the same thing on a much grander scale?

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When I say my academic journey was traumatic, I mean my migratory grief is woven into it. I learned to stretch a meal for days, to smile through exhaustion, to push through papers with a mind too hungry to think. When graduate school slipped from my grasp, it wasn’t just a lost opportunity—it felt like proof that I had failed the sacrifices made for me. Losing that dream didn’t just shake my confidence; it deepened the grief I already carried from leaving Toronto. A solid sense of identity and the hope of something greater had kept me going, but when those dreams slipped away, so did a piece of who I was. Without them, I felt untethered, like I had lost not just a future, but another home.

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"If I came all this way to get into grad school and I can’t even complete it, what am I doing here?" Would failing mean I had wasted the sacrifices my family made?

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That voice—the fear of failure—still lingers. It shapes my decisions, whispers doubt, and questions my worth. But now, I recognize it. And in that recognition, I reclaim a measure of control. I can choose to listen, or I can prove that particular voice wrong by taking action.

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How would you define migratory grief in a general sense? What are the signs someone may be experiencing this?

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Migratory grief is the quiet ache of homesickness wrapped in gratitude. It’s the scent of childhood meals now faint in memory, the warmth of familiar traditions that feel distant, the longing for streets that exist only in remembering. It is the mourning of a version of yourself that only existed in that place, with those people. It’s not just about geography. It’s about carrying that loss in ways you don’t always have words for.

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People expect grief when someone dies. But migratory grief is different—it lingers in the background, in quiet moments. It’s triggered by small things: struggling to find the right word in your mother tongue, hearing your parents' accents in public and feeling self-conscious, or realizing your childhood friends have inside jokes you no longer understand. It’s the guilt of building a life far from family, and the ache of knowing that by the time you go back home, it won’t feel the same. Because migratory grief isn’t just about what’s left behind—it transforms you and your sense of home, reshaping both the places you return to and the way you carry them within you.

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Unlike situational depression, migratory grief seeps into the body—it manifests in the restless search for familiarity, in the tension between gratitude and longing. Its signs aren’t just emotional; they live in the pauses of a sentence, in the ache of unspoken homesickness.

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Migratory grief lingers in the body—tightness in the jaw from words left unsaid, fatigue that sleep doesn’t ease, an unsettled stomach that churns with the weight of unspoken longing. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.

Behavioural changes, like shrinking into the background to avoid standing out or feeling like a visitor in both old and new spaces, can be markers of migratory grief. Others drown in work, mistaking exhaustion for purpose. Between the push to assimilate and the pull of what was left behind, belonging becomes a moving target—always just out of reach. For those who migrated as children, the pressure to adapt often outweighed the space to simply be. What began as survival became second nature, and in adulthood, many of us find ourselves repeating the same patterns, like stretching ourselves too thin and measuring our worth by how well we endure. The careful nurturing we lacked is something we must now learn to give ourselves.

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Existential or identity conflicts may present with this line of thinking: "Who am I when the language of my childhood feels foreign on my tongue? Or when my roots stretch across an ocean, but my feet stand on unfamiliar ground?" Caught in the space between cultures, migratory grief is the quiet mourning of a self that no longer fits neatly anywhere.

Migratory grief doesn’t just belong to those who leave—it is inherited. First-generation parents mourn quietly, while their children, raised in the in-between, shoulder the weight of preserving a heritage they were never fully immersed in. 

Migratory grief doesn’t disappear, it shifts and reshapes over time. Healing starts with acknowledgment, allowing space for both loss and growth. It’s not about erasing grief but learning to hold it while redefining home, belonging, and self. Integration isn’t about choosing one identity over another; it’s about weaving together past and present in a way that feels whole. Therapy, particularly when it is culturally aware, can support this process—helping individuals make sense of their grief, reconnect with their roots, and create space for new ways of belonging. Storytelling and community, too, offer meaningful ways forward, reminding us that we don’t have to navigate this journey alone.

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Does migratory grief tend to co-occur with other mental health challenges or have any common risk factors?

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Migratory grief often intertwines with depressive and anxiety symptoms, not just because of the loss itself but because of the emotional contradictions that come with it. Gratitude and grief coexist, as does pride in one’s resilience and the quiet ache of what was left behind. Guilt seeps in quietly—in video calls with aging parents who wave off their own loneliness, in the heavy suitcase of pasalubong (Gifts for people back home, “something for when you welcome me”) meant to make up for the years spent away. It’s the unspoken weight of utang na loob, the invisible debt that no amount of success seems to repay. This guilt can turn inward, leading to subtle self-harming behaviours that aren’t always recognized as such.

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For many Filipinos, Catholicism’s deep roots shape how this guilt is processed. It isn’t always through self-punishment in obvious ways, but in overworking to prove one’s worth, maintaining porous boundaries to avoid seeming selfish or overspending when visiting the Philippines as a way to compensate for distance. The weight of utang na loob (the unspoken debt to family and ancestors) can make it difficult to set boundaries or prioritize mental well-being. These patterns, though often framed as acts of love and duty, can quietly chip away at one’s sense of self and worsen existing mental health struggles.

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Migratory grief is carried in the body as much as the mind. It settles in the shoulders, in sleepless nights, in the quiet exhaustion of constantly translating oneself between cultures. It lingers in the body as much as in the mind. Some people withdraw socially, feeling like they exist in limbo—never fully belonging to the place they left or the place they now call home. Others lean into emotional numbing, avoidance, or even self-sacrificing behaviours that keep them from acknowledging their own needs.

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At its core, migratory grief isn’t just about missing a place. It’s about mourning an identity, a language that no longer rolls off the tongue as easily, a version of yourself that only existed in a different home. The absence of a strong cultural community can deepen this isolation, making it harder to find spaces that understand this kind of grief. Without acknowledgment, it festers in silence, compounding other mental health challenges.

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Healing starts with recognition—understanding that grief and gratitude can coexist, that setting boundaries doesn’t mean dishonouring one’s roots, and that belonging is something that can be redefined rather than lost.

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What are the ways you support migrants and those who are experiencing migratory grief through your work or the therapy you provide?

Pagkwentuhan, or storytelling, with kapwa and pakikiramdam at its core, has been a powerful tool in supporting my clients through their migratory grief. Kapwa is the understanding that the self is not entirely separate from others. It's a sacred connectedness. Pakikiramdam can be understood as empathy or deep attunement to navigate social harmony and sense unspoken emotions. Pagkwentuhan embodying the core values of kapwa and pakikiramdam often looks like a gentle conversation—an invitation to explore how they experience their world. What meaning do they assign to their journey? What unspoken narratives have shaped their identity? Deep empathy and attunement are often missing in the lives of immigrants, as much of their existence revolves around their ability to provide. In our sessions, they are being cared for by a familiar face. They receive a momentary pause from urgency, a space where their worth is not tied to productivity but to their inherent value as a person.

 

Another way I support my clients is by creating opportunities for identity stabilization. Migration can make identity feel fragmented—caught between expectations from home and the demands of their new reality. Through pagkwentuhan, clients begin to reclaim their personal narratives. At times, I incorporate structured exercises like the “Wheel of Life” or “Ikigai,” helping clients reflect on who they are beyond survival and responsibility. We explore cultural anchoring, identifying traditions, language, or rituals that help them feel rooted even in unfamiliar spaces. We also address role fluidity—the tension between being a provider, a caregiver, an achiever, and the need to simply exist as themselves. Many struggle with the weight of external validation, so we work on separating their self-worth from societal and familial expectations, allowing them to define success on their terms.
 

I also integrate Narrative Therapy and Emotionally Focused Individual Therapy into my approach. For many migrants, identity is shaped by inherited narratives—stories of sacrifice that become both a source of pride and an unseen tether, pulling them toward expectations they never set for themselves. We work on reframing these stories, shifting from survival to resilience, from obligation to agency. Additionally, many face attachment wounds—the pain of separation from loved ones, the loss of community, the disconnection from a sense of belonging. I help clients identify how these disrupted attachments influence their emotions and relationships, guiding them toward emotion regulation and self-compassion. Migrants are often conditioned to suppress emotions to “stay strong.” In our sessions, they learn that vulnerability is not weakness—it’s a step toward healing.
 

Through this work, my clients begin to see that migratory grief doesn’t have to define them. They are more than their sacrifices and the sacrifices of their family. They are more than their ability to endure. They are whole, evolving, and deserving of care.

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What may others do to support themselves or others through immigration or to prevent of manage migratory grief?

 

Supporting oneself or others through the emotional challenges of immigration requires more than just practical assistance; it demands a heartfelt connection and understanding. Immigrants often find themselves flooded in the never-ending pursuit of survival and provision, leaving little room to acknowledge their own pain and loss.

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Engaging in pagkwentuhan can serve as a therapeutic avenue for expressing and processing these complex emotions. However, cultural nuances, like hiya (a profound sense of propriety and decency, sometimes understood as shame) may lead individuals to downplay their hardships to avoid burdening others. This tendency is noted by psychotherapist Roanne de Guia-Samuels, who observes that many Filipinos may repeatedly refuse to admit hardship before openly acknowledging it.

 

To navigate this, loved ones and community members can offer persistent, gentle curiosity. By asking about an immigrant's life before migration and genuinely asking how they are coping, supporters can create a safe space for sharing. This consistent, compassionate engagement can help pierce the veil of hiya, showing a sincere willingness to share in the emotional burden and fostering a deeper connection.

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Beyond individual support, communal spaces dedicated to shared healing can be transformative. My work includes facilitating culturally nuanced support groups where immigrants, and children of immigrants, can gather in a space of deep understanding. These groups honour both the silent and spoken grief of migration, allowing individuals to reconnect with parts of themselves that may have been buried under the weight of survival. Here, the goal is not just to process grief but to rebuild a sense of home and belonging—on your own terms, among others who truly understand.

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In essence, the journey through migratory grief is not one to be walked alone. Through empathetic dialogue and unwavering support, immigrants and their communities can find healing and resilience together.

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Do you have anything else you would like to share?

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Migratory grief is a quiet weight, carried in ways that aren’t always seen or understood. It lingers in the spaces between longing and survival, between the life left behind and the one still being built. But grief, when named and held with care, can transform. Healing is not about choosing between where you came from and where you are. It’s about carrying both—letting memory and movement coexist. Your grief is real, but so is your right to joy, to belonging, to rest. If you’re ready, let’s begin that journey together. It means finding refuge in community, in storytelling, in the small moments of being truly seen. Through my work, I offer spaces where this grief is acknowledged, where the weight is shared, and where immigrants can begin to reclaim a sense of self beyond survival. If these words feel familiar, you are not alone. Your grief is real, and so is your right to healing. Whether through community, conversation, or quiet reflection, there is space for your story to unfold. Let’s begin that journey together.