The Privilege to Move
What my old car and my friend Miriam taught me about privilege
“You’re Rich.”
I bought my first car at 26. It was a 14-year-old Chrysler Town & Country station wagon with power windows, faux wood panelling, and an amazing ability to accommodate any amount of camping gear. The previous owner named it Brown Bear. As a grad student living in British Columbia — arguably one of the most beautiful parts of the world — I equated the car with freedom: hiking, kayaking, swimming in lakes every weekend regardless of weather, and sharing pasta dinners with friends after a full day of exploring. I was telling myself I needed the car to get around faster, save on groceries by buying in bulk, and save time. But part of me felt indulgent.
Miriam was a fellow international student, from Nigeria, and we were both teaching undergrads while studying full-time. When she heard me justify my purchase with savings from Costco trips, she laughed and said simply, “You’re rich.”
What, me? I didn’t feel rich. Far from it! I was on a tight budget like other students, living in a basement, scraping by. The good old Brown Bear was as much car as I could afford. How could someone think I was rich?
Then I met Miriam’s five children. One was working, one in university, and three still in school. Unlike me, Miriam had no scholarship. Her teaching stipend brought in about $20 a day. From that, she was housing and feeding six people, plus putting herself and one of her children through university. They walked everywhere. Meals were built around beans, corn and okra soup, day after day. Bare essentials. No variety. And yet, the family’s lives were fueled by Miriam’s determination, and love, and grace.
I was starting to understand. Compared to Miriam, I was rich — in choice, in freedom, in mobility. In the luxury of indulgence. I had come to Vancouver because I liked the grad program on offer there, and I was looking for adventure. Miriam moved because she had to leave. She was seeking safety, opportunity, a future for her children.
And still, Miriam always had a smile on her face, she often sang happy songs, and repeated how blessed she felt. Surrounded by her children, anchored by her faith community, she radiated gratitude. Watching Miriam navigate her new life taught me more about privilege than any of my university classes did.
The Privilege to Move
When Kathy and I started the Relocurious project, we were acutely aware of our own privilege — the freedom to leave a good life in search of one filled with exploration and creative pursuits. We had the means, the health, and the passports to begin again. We weren’t fleeing hardship. We were following a dream. And we are loving every day.
Many people move for similar reasons: to study, work, travel, and enjoy a life of adventure. Others move to survive: escaping war, oppression, or poverty. And many more don’t move at all, and never will. Not because they wouldn’t want to, or that a move wouldn’t dramatically improve their life, or those of their children. It’s simply that they can’t: They are not rich enough, healthy enough, or free enough to move.
We may think of relocating across borders as a personal choice. But behind that choice are the quiet forces of privilege: who gets to move, what motivates them, what resources and supports they have, and how their experience unfolds in the new place. Take a moment to consider how true the following considerations are for you:
1. Privilege gives you the option to move. Those who move for education or better job or retirement usually do so from a place of relative stability. We may not think of ourselves as being rich, yet a scholarship, pension, strong passport, good health — all of these are forms of privilege. They open doors that remain firmly shut for many.
2. Privilege shapes how you move. A couple relocates to one partner’s home country. One feels at ease; the other is a foreigner. A business owner navigates visa paperwork with the help of a lawyer; someone with fewer resources spends months in limbo, unsure if they’ll be allowed to stay. The playing field is rarely level.
3. Privilege doesn’t guarantee ease. Even those who move with ample resources face challenges: Loneliness, culture shock, bureaucratic tangles. International students with scholarships that enable their relocation often carry a quiet burden — to make the move (that often becomes permanent) “worth it” for the family back home, while rebuilding their identity and social circles from scratch.
4. Privilege is relative. Brown Bear was a symbol of freedom for me, yet it was also a continued source of guilt (and further expenses). For Miriam, the idea of owning a car was beyond reach, even though we were earning about the same amounts of money. The difference was in our obligations, our safety nets, and our histories.
5. Privilege can change. Retirees who move abroad with savings and a sense of security may find things shift — currency values drop, new regulations arise, rental income dries up. One’s status (or how welcome one feels in their new country) may change quickly as a result of political decisions. Privilege may open the door, but it doesn’t shield us from life’s unpredictability.
Being There For One Another
As I reflect on Miriam’s story, my own experiences, and the powerful insights shared by the people we have been interviewing for the Relocurious podcast, it strikes me that along with money, passports, and education, what can make or break our moves (just like most other major changes in our lives) is what psychologists call social capital.
Encyclopedia Britannica defines it as our potential “to secure benefits and invent solutions to problems through membership in social networks”, but really, it’s about being surrounded by good and caring people. People ‘back home’, people in the new country, people who are moving with you. For Miriam, it was her children and church friends. For me, it was the little group of friends around our ‘Brown Bear weekend’ hikes, as well as my parents who quietly cheered on me as I chose my path and lived my dreams.
Having the support of family, friends, or a faith community can make a move easier, less stressful, even joyful. Gregory Garretson spoke to the value of connections in a recent conversation: “Do everything you can to maintain your friends that you had before you moved … it’s a connection to your past and to your personal history.” At the same time, “try to meet new people … who can … welcome you into the new culture. … You really do need to work on several fronts in terms of the social aspect of living abroad.”
Whether it’s the emotional reassurance of a friend you confide in, the practical help of someone who knows the system, the friend of a friend who helps you find a place to stay, or the colleague who makes an introduction, social capital can make a difference between feeling adrift in a new country, and feeling anchored and supported.
I see social capital as both a privilege to be enjoyed and a capacity that each of us can intentionally build. We grow it when we show up for people, proactively offer to help, and remain connected. And among the many privileges that shape relocation experiences, social capital may be the one over which we have the most control. We can actively build it — not necessarily because it may one day benefit us, but because it may be a vital resource for those around us who may be carrying heavier burdens.
Privilege and Responsibility
It takes a lot to move — and move successfully. It goes beyond wanting a different life, researching possibilities, and taking steps like saving up money or applying for a visa. Economic circumstances, race, citizenship, health, gender, education and a host of other factors can profoundly influence whether someone is able to cross borders, whether they are welcomed or excluded, and how they are treated once they arrive. For most of us, moving would be unthinkable without the love, encouragement and support of others.
To acknowledge how privileged we are to take advantage of what our beautiful world has to offer, to choose the big moves in our lives, and to navigate them successfully, is to hold responsibility — to use our relative freedom with awareness, humility, and solidarity.
Thank you for reading. Relocurious is a space where we explore the emotional and psychological aspects of moving — in a podcast, posts, and shared stories. Please consider supporting us by subscribing and sharing your reflections. We’d love to hear your story.