In 2014, I moved to Oman for a foreign job opportunity that looked like success from the outside but slowly became a lesson in silent burnout, financial stress, and long-distance relationship strain. What began as pride turned into emotional numbness, workplace exploitation, and quiet loneliness. This is a story about functioning depression abroad — surviving without drama, and learning what resilience really costs.
Disclaimer: I write from lived experience, not professional authority. This space is for connection and reflection, not diagnosis or treatment. If you need support, please speak to a trained mental health professional.
In 2014, I moved to Oman for work.
My first time outside India. I remember feeling proud—like this was finally something going right. A foreign posting. A respectable role. Proof that the chaos before had led somewhere.
The first shock was the heat. Even at eight in the morning, the sun felt sharp, almost aggressive, like it was drilling into my skin. I told myself I’d get used to it. And I did.
The second shock was quieter, but heavier.
The company collected our passports the moment we reached the guest house. Then came the rules. Long hours—twelve to thirteen a day. Delayed salaries. Two months’ pay held back “as policy.” Payments arriving almost a month late. For the first four months, I was essentially working without money, paying for food and travel from my own pocket.
I nodded through all of it.
This was opportunity. This was sacrifice. This was how things worked.
Oman itself was beautiful. Green landscapes, calm beaches, kind people. The locals never treated expatriates as lesser. In that sense, it felt humane. Slowly, I adjusted.
But my marriage didn’t.
Distance has a way of amplifying every crack. I had promised my wife I’d visit after three months. When the time came, I couldn’t afford the travel. By the time I had the money, seven months had passed—and leaving then didn’t make sense, with a longer official leave just a few months away.
It broke something between us. Quietly. Repeatedly.
At work, I made another mistake: I trusted too easily. I shared parts of my personal life with colleagues who initially seemed caring. Later, those same details became material for mockery. I learned too late that not everyone asking questions deserves answers.
Days began to blur.
Wake up.
Get dressed.
Walk to the office.
Work. Smile. Nod. Stay late.
Come back. Eat. Lie down.
No strong sadness. No dramatic despair. Just a dull sense of moving through someone else’s routine. Like my body was present, but I wasn’t consulted.
Sometimes a thought would surface: I should just leave and go back to India.
It would pass. Everything passed.
Language became another quiet wall. Most colleagues spoke Malayalam. They didn’t know Hindi, and their English was limited. I wasn’t lonely in the obvious way—I was surrounded by people. I was lonely in the specific way where no one can really talk to you.
Weekends were strange. Occasionally, I’d go to the beach with a few Indian friends who spoke Hindi. They were kind, generous, never letting me pay for anything. The sea helped. The open space helped.
But returning to the room afterward felt unbearable. The same walls. The same noise. Drunken arguments in a language I couldn’t understand—just loud chaos without meaning.
One thing kept me afloat.
Every Friday morning, I’d wake early and walk twenty minutes to a Buddhist temple. Expatriates were allowed there. Sri Lankan devotees would chant under a peepal tree. Incense filled the air. The rhythm of the prayers slowed something inside me.
For an hour—sometimes ninety minutes—I could breathe. I recited scriptures quietly. I didn’t ask for happiness. Just strength. Enough to get through the coming week.
By chance—one-in-a-million chance—I ran into an old college friend at a meditation camp. We hadn’t seen each other in over a decade. He recognized me in the crowd. Just like that. Sometimes I’d visit him. His apartment was close to the temple. Those small connections mattered more than I knew then.
Still, the weeks remained robotic. I honestly couldn’t tell you what I did from morning to night. It felt like living under a spell. Nothing hurt sharply. Nothing felt good either.
I finished eleven months because I told myself I had to.
When I finally left, I received all the pending salary. It was a relief. I had saved money. I had survived.
But I was also coming back to zero.
No job. No certainty. Just a quiet tiredness that didn’t look like depression—but lived exactly like it.
Today, I recognize that phase for what it was.
Not dramatic. Not visible.
Just a slow fading of color while life continued at full volume.
Have you ever gone through a phase where nothing was wrong enough to stop—but nothing felt right enough to stay?
(If you’ve lived that kind of grey, you don’t need to explain much. A line or two is enough.)
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