There’s a peculiar social phenomenon that catches most expatriates off guard within their first few months abroad. You’re at a neighborhood cafe, making small talk with a friendly local who’s curious about your story. You explain that you moved here for the architecture, or the slower pace of life, or because you’d always dreamed of living near the mountains. They nod politely, but there’s something in their eyes that suggests they’re not quite buying it.
The truth is, unless you can immediately follow up with “I’m a teacher” or “I’m an engineer with Shell,” most locals have already drawn their own conclusion about why you really moved overseas. In their minds, you’re running from a broken heart or chasing a new one.
This assumption operates beneath the surface of nearly every conversation, coloring how people interpret your choices and predict your future. When you mention you’re still settling in after six months, they think it’s because you haven’t met the right person yet. When you talk about how different the culture is, they hear it as code for how different the dating scene is. If you express any homesickness at all, they assume your romantic life here hasn’t worked out.
The assumption becomes particularly strong in countries where foreign residents have historically arrived in waves tied to romance. Southeast Asian nations, parts of Latin America, and increasingly popular European destinations like Portugal all carry this baggage. The stereotype has been reinforced by countless stories, both real and exaggerated, of foreigners who did indeed relocate for love or the pursuit of it.
What makes this dynamic so frustrating is its circular logic. If you protest too much, insisting that you moved for entirely practical reasons, it can read as defensive, which only strengthens the suspicion that matters of the heart are involved. If you don’t address it at all, the assumption simply solidifies through silence. You can’t win by playing their game because they’ve already decided the rules.
The exception, as mentioned, comes down to occupation. Arrive with a corporate transfer to a multinational firm, a diplomatic posting, a university position, or an NGO assignment, and suddenly your legitimacy is unquestioned. These jobs come with their own explanatory power. Nobody wonders why the marine biologist moved to the coastal research station or why the software developer relocated to the tech hub. The job itself provides narrative cover, a socially acceptable reason that requires no further interrogation.
But show up as a freelancer, a remote worker, someone living off savings or investments, or pursuing something creative, and the whispers begin. The assumption thrives in the absence of institutional validation. Without a clear professional reason that locals can easily understand and categorize, your presence becomes mysterious, and mysterious foreigners are presumed to be following their hearts rather than their heads.
This isn’t entirely unfair, of course. The demographics support some version of the stereotype. A meaningful percentage of expatriates, particularly those who moved independently rather than through a company, did make the leap because of a relationship or the hope of one. Some found love while traveling and decided to stay. Others arrived with a partner from that country. Still others, perhaps more than would admit it at dinner parties, were indeed motivated by a desire for a fresh start in their romantic lives.
But stereotypes, even when rooted in partial truths, flatten the complexity of individual human decisions. They erase the person who moved because they inherited property there, or the one who chose a lower cost of living to pursue writing without financial pressure, or the individual who simply felt an inexplicable pull to a place after a single visit years ago. These stories exist, but they’re harder to explain in casual conversation, harder to package into the neat categories that help locals make sense of the constant flow of foreigners through their communities.
The assumption also reveals something about how we collectively understand ambition and adventure. A job transfer is logical, a promotion sensible, a corporate opportunity rational. But moving somewhere simply because you wanted to, because it called to you in ways you can’t fully articulate, strikes many people as too vague, too risky, too much like the behavior of someone following emotion rather than reason. And in the popular imagination, the strongest emotion that makes people cross oceans is romantic love.
Over time, most expatriates develop strategies for navigating this unspoken belief. Some lean into the professional angle, emphasizing their work even when it wasn’t the primary motivation. Others find it easier to let people believe what they want to believe rather than constantly correcting the record. A few become defiant, wearing their independence as a badge of honor, perhaps protesting a bit too loudly that they moved for themselves and themselves alone.
The fortunate ones eventually find their people, other foreigners or open-minded locals who understand that humans move for a constellation of reasons, not a single star. These are the relationships where you don’t have to defend your decision or prove that it was sufficiently rational. They’re the friendships where your choice to be here is accepted at face value, not psychoanalyzed for hidden romantic motivations.
Still, the assumption persists, particularly with new acquaintances and in broader community spaces. It’s a social tax that comes with the territory of moving abroad without institutional backing. You learn to live with it, to let it roll off your back, to find humor in the disconnect between their theories about you and your actual life.
Because here’s the thing: you know why you moved. You know the late nights of research, the spreadsheets comparing costs of living, the pull you felt toward this particular place. You know that while dating might be a part of your life here, it’s not the whole story, not even close. And ultimately, that knowledge has to be enough, even when the person serving your morning coffee remains convinced that you’re just another foreigner who came here looking for love.
