Between Worlds: The Emotional Challenges of Migration and the Support of Psychotherapy

As a psychotherapist grounded in an existential-humanistic approach, I often sit with individuals who have uprooted their lives in search of safety, meaning, opportunity, or connection. Moving to another country is more than a logistical or geographic change—it is an existential turning point. Beneath the surface of new languages, customs, and routines lies a profound invitation to confront the very questions that define our human experience: Who am I now? What does home mean? Where do I belong?

When someone migrates, they are often thrust into a state of groundlessness. The familiar markers of identity—cultural codes, language, profession, relationships—are often stripped away or reshaped. This disorientation can stir deep existential anxiety, a kind of trembling beneath the surface that arises not just from fear of the unknown, but from a confrontation with freedom, choice, and the fragility of life’s foundations.

Loneliness is a frequent and painful part of this journey. Separated from family, friends, and the texture of one’s cultural roots, the migrant can feel profoundly unseen. In existential-humanistic therapy, we view this not simply as a problem to be fixed, but as an invitation to sit with the reality of our relational nature. Humans are, after all, beings-in-relationship. When those connections are lost or interrupted, the ache reveals something essential about our need to be known, to be mirrored, to belong.

Language barriers, too, carry more than practical difficulty. They disrupt expression at the level of the soul. To not be able to express oneself fully—to speak from the depth of emotion or to share one's story with nuance—can create a subtle but constant sense of alienation. In therapy, we work to reclaim voice. Whether through words, silence, or emotion, the therapeutic space becomes a sanctuary for authenticity, where the migrant can rediscover their ability to speak and be heard.

A particularly poignant theme in migration is the grief that comes with loss—not just of people or places, but of who we were in those places. The existential lens sees grief as a necessary and meaningful process. In sessions, we do not rush to “move on” but instead make space to mourn with reverence: the smell of home-cooked meals, the comfort of a mother tongue, the feeling of being understood without explanation. This kind of grief work honors the depth of attachment and opens the door to healing.

Migrants often experience what I would call an identity rupture. The person they were no longer fits the context, yet who they are becoming has not fully emerged. This in-between state can feel like existential freefall. Rather than pathologize this ambiguity, we explore it as fertile ground for growth. What values do you wish to live by now? What kind of life feels authentic, given your new reality? These are not quick questions, but they are profoundly transformative when asked with compassion and presence.

In existential-humanistic therapy, we explore meaning as an active, lived process. For many migrants, the move was a response to a search for purpose—perhaps to support loved ones, escape danger, or pursue a dream. And yet, meaning can become obscured by daily survival. Together, we work to reconnect with the "why" behind the journey, even as that "why" evolves. Meaning is not a fixed destination but something we co-create in the face of uncertainty.

Therapy also becomes a place to explore the fundamental tension between freedom and responsibility. In migration, individuals often face daunting choices—where to live, how to raise children in a new culture, which aspects of themselves to preserve or adapt. This freedom can be exhilarating or terrifying. My role is not to prescribe a path but to accompany the client in discovering what choices align with their deepest values and aspirations.

Existential anxiety is a natural companion on this path. Questions of mortality, purpose, and isolation are often intensified by migration. Rather than suppress these feelings, we bring them into the light. In doing so, they lose some of their power to overwhelm and instead become guideposts—signals that life is asking to be lived more deeply, more consciously, more courageously.

As a therapist, I do not hold answers, but I do hold space—for complexity, contradiction, and the quiet unfolding of truth. I believe that in the presence of genuine connection, people find the courage to face their suffering, and from that suffering, a new self is often born. The migrant’s journey, while laden with challenge, is also a heroic one. It is a passage through loss toward new meaning, through dislocation toward deeper selfhood.

Group therapy, community spaces, and culturally sensitive practices all support this healing, but the heart of the work is always relational. In the therapeutic encounter, we co-create a space where the migrant is no longer just surviving, but is seen, heard, and invited to simply be. That presence—without judgment, without agenda—is often the most powerful medicine.

Moving to another country can fracture the inner world, but it also opens a doorway to transformation. Through the lens of existential-humanistic psychotherapy, we see this rupture not as a disorder, but as an opening—a moment where the deeper truths of our humanity can be faced, felt, and ultimately embraced.

Gabriel Millan

Psychotherapist

CRP 01/27509