This Isn’t the Life I Dreamed Of—But It’s the One That Made Me

My journey began in a small village in western Nepal. At 16, I left home and moved to the capital city, full of hope and big dreams. I had just 1,500 Nepalese rupees—about 15 Australian dollars—in my pocket, and a heart full of excitement. It was the first time I’d left my parents, and I believed I could finally live life on my own terms.

But that was childish thinking.

I hadn’t yet realized that in real life, even putting food on the table is a fight.

I didn’t come from a wealthy family, but we never struggled for the basics. I always had food to eat and a new set of clothes once a year. A few days into my new city life, I was enjoying the independence. I had some money—money my mother had borrowed without telling me. I later learned the truth, and it broke me a little. I had always believed deep down that we were secretly rich, but in reality, my parents were doing everything they could to hide our poverty from me.

My father once ran a successful business. But due to poor investments and shifting markets, the income dried up. Still, my parents never let me feel the burden. They sacrificed everything just to give me a sense of normalcy.

I completed high school in Kathmandu and slowly began to understand the hardships my parents faced. My father wanted me to focus on my studies and become a government officer—something stable and prestigious. I dreamed of becoming a doctor, but the cost was simply out of reach.

One day, feeling lost and depressed, I started calling my old friends. A friend from primary school told me he was preparing to go to the USA for flight training. My classmates from year 11 said they were studying for MBBS. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I was overwhelmed with anxiety.

What was I doing with my life?

I left my apartment and took a year-long gap to figure things out. During that time, I sat for multiple entrance exams—engineering, agriculture, and more. I even received partial scholarships. But deep down, I felt stuck. Even if I completed a four-year course, job uncertainty haunted me. I couldn’t justify putting my family through more financial pressure.

So, I quit. I quit chasing what didn’t feel right.

And I started to reflect deeply: What could I do that would help both me and my parents?

After months of thinking, I made a decision: I would go abroad to earn and support my family.

Around that time, I connected with an uncle living in Japan. We had a long, heartfelt conversation. I told him everything—my fears, my dreams, and my desire to do something meaningful. He suggested I apply for Australia.

Ironically, I had always been very patriotic—one of those people who debated that we should stay in our country and contribute to the local economy. So even considering Australia felt like betraying my own beliefs. And to be honest, my family didn’t have the financial means to support such a plan.

But my uncle made me an offer: “If you can get a good score in your English test, I will sponsor you.”

That conversation changed everything.

I began preparing for the IELTS with hope and determination. When I finally received my result—6.5 overall, no less than 6 in any section—I was both thrilled and terrified. Could I really go? Could we make it work?

My uncle kept his word and helped me with the finances. Two years later, I paid him back.

But little did I know—that wasn’t the hardest part.

What awaited me in Australia wasn’t just a foreign land. It was a test of identity, resilience, and survival. I had crossed oceans hoping for freedom—but found myself caught in a cycle I never expected.

In the next chapter, I’ll share the unseen reality of starting over in a new country: the struggle to belong, juggling multiple jobs, and the emotional toll of chasing someone else's version of success.

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