What No One Tells You About Living in Germany With Anxiety
It's hard enough living with a sensitive nervous system. Imagine living in a country where having a thick skin is a pre-requisite.
“Wie bitte?” The mother squints at me.
Her tone isn’t cold, but it’s not warm. I feel my throat tighten as heat rushes to my face. I try again, slower this time, “Wie war Ken? Hat er gut mit anderen gespielt?“
I’ve practiced this phrase all morning. Still, I can’t curl my “Rs” like I’m supposed to. She nods her head as she gives a half-hearted smile. Then calls my son, takes his knapsack from the hook, and hands it over to me without making eye contact.
I want so badly for her to meet me halfway, like a smile, a kind word, even just eye contact. Something to tell me I wasn’t failing this test. I smile and say, “Danke schön,” hoping for a flicker of connection, but her eyes are focused on my son. I leave the place with my heart thudding, my throat clenching, and my body tensing.
My brain shuts off in moments like this—all the years I’ve spent learning German, gone. Instead, words stuck in my throat like a bone of a fish, and when they finally dislodge, the words trip over each other.
And I’m left wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
I have been nervous and restless before. Who hasn’t? But this feels different.
What I feel is a constant state of restlessness. It’s like a snake coiled around my body. It feels heavy. My body scans for any signs of danger—a frown from the kindergarten teacher, a dismissive reply from a mom, a flash of irritation in the cashier’s voice.
My body notices all of it.
I grew up very aware that I am different in a negative way. I was born in Nepal to Nepali parents, and we moved to Tokyo when I was two. All I remember from my Japanese kindergarten is hiding behind a giant tree so the bullies wouldn’t find me. I ate lunch in the toilet just to avoid their stares. Even then, at five, I already hated myself for being an outsider, the freak.
I was unusually quiet, but inside I was raging.
The streets of Japan were full of danger, too. Bullies from a Japanese school awaited our arrival and taunted us. At home, Dad had a volatile temper. I became the obedient one to avoid the belt. I watched his moods with perfect precision. I protected my sisters and my mother. I learned to anticipate, to blend, to disappear.
In San Francisco, I finally felt somewhat at home. In Myanmar, I fell in love. And now, in Germany, married to a wonderful man, raising a beautiful 6-year-old son, I should be happy. I should feel settled.
But my body doesn’t agree.
Something about Germany pulls me back into my fearful past. There’s this thick, unspoken rule where you’re expected to adapt, blend in, and not make waves. This reminds me of Tokyo. It shoots off alarm bells in the form of a rapid heartbeat when I’m at a family birthday party where everyone is conversing in German and no one is making an effort to include me.
It’s not the act itself that is bothersome. It’s how my body remembers that particular kind of fear, you know, the kind where no one says you don’t belong, but everything around you makes it clear you don’t.
It’s assimilate or leave. Grow a thick skin or two.
A few months ago, I left a kindergarten parent meeting and burst into tears on the sidewalk. No one had been rude. The teacher had been friendly. I had nodded and even asked a question. My husband translated when needed. It should have been fine. But afterward, I felt as if I’d been hit by a truck. My nervous system trembled like a guitar string from head to toe.
That night, I typed into Reddit: “Expat having a hard time adapting in Germany.”
And there it was. Post after post describing the exact feelings I had buried—how hard it is to make friends here, how isolating it feels to always be slightly out of sync, how exhausting it is to keep trying.
One woman wrote, “I used to be funny in my language. Now I just nod and smile.” Another said, “I feel like I’m shrinking.” And this one captured my exact sentiment. “I’m trying so hard here. I understand I need to speak German (a very difficult language to learn, btw), but please, please meet me halfway.”
And then I found an InterNations survey showing that Germany ranks among the lowest countries for expat happiness. Nearly 1 in 6 expats eventually leave, not because of work or weather, but because they don’t feel like they belong. Some leave because of discrimination. Others, because they realize they don’t fit, and even if they did, they will always be an outsider.
I wish I could say things got easier after that. That naming the feeling helped me cope. That the survey confirmed my thoughts and calmed my nerves. But lately, I’ve stopped even trying.
My husband does almost everything now—school emails, grocery runs, pharmacy pickups, the endless paper trail of German bureaucracy. He even takes our son to soccer practice. I haven’t gone in months. I say I’m tired, which is true, but it’s more than that. I’m wiped out. I don’t want to try anymore.
I can’t bring myself to be around German parents, trying to decipher what they’re saying, pretending it doesn’t faze me. I don’t want to talk in a language where I feel judged. I can’t smile when I feel like I’m faking it. Sometimes I don’t even want to leave the house. Picking up my son feels like too much. It’s not that I don’t want to be there for my son. But there’s always a chance of a teacher asking me something and me not being able to answer.
It’s so not me. I’m resilient. I’m brave. I don’t get anxious—this is how I see myself.
Yet, when instead of understanding or empathy, I get a shrug, eye roll, or even silence, I feel the opposite of how I see myself. I’m not saying they’re mean. They just don’t respond in a way I thought most humans respond. Things I thought were universal are not universal here.
Like, there is no concept of small talk here. You don’t talk to strangers or smile at them. Some don’t even smile even if you know them. Silence is a virtue even during lunchtime in a group setting. There are no pleasantries. They’re off-putting and discouraged. Cracking the hard shell of a friendship group takes months or years. Most Germans feel no need to make additional friends outside their circle. Lecturing you about your wrong behavior is a national pastime. Customer service is non-existent.
You see, it doesn’t help that even before I moved to Germany, I felt everything. Tones, tension, eye contact, shifts in energy. I walk into a room and immediately register if something’s off. I also replay conversations in my head for hours. Did I say the right thing? Did I miss a cue? Did I sound stupid?
Small mistakes feel unbearable. I don’t want to be an inconvenience.
In Japan, this sensitivity helped me survive abuse inside and outside the home. I learned to read subtle signals and anticipate what was expected. But in Germany, it’s become a liability. All the virtues I grew up with are a weakness here.
So, how do I survive here?
That’s a question I need to think hard about, especially when my anxiety is the result of never feeling at ease, like my nervous system is always bracing for an attack. I’m living in a society I will never get used to because their values are so far from mine. It’s no one’s fault.
Still, tomorrow is another day. And I’ll try again. I have to, if I’m going to live here.
I’ll start with something small. The bakery, maybe. Or a smile at the playground. I’ll say something to the kindergarten teacher—even if I’m not perfect. Even thinking about it is making my heart flutter.
The goal isn’t perfection anymore. The goal is showing up, even when it’s hard and reminding myself that I’m not weak. I’m wired differently. I feel more, I notice more, and that’s not a flaw.
Maybe the real work is learning to stay with the discomfort. To stop trying to ignore or judge, and instead root myself so I can feel more rooted. The challenge is I find myself becoming more like them. The challenge is, how do I preserve myself in this environment?
I just have to keep going. Keep finding ways to calm my nervous system and small ways to belong to myself.
It starts with you, after all, and others are a reflection of how you feel about yourself. I didn’t make that up. I read that somewhere. So, maybe that’s all I can do at the moment. Accept that I’m having a hard time and have empathy for that.
Soothe myself like how a mother would caress a child in distress.
It starts with me.