Should We Stay in Nepal or Go Abroad?

There are two Nepals that exist for many of us—and they live side by side, in constant contradiction. One fills our hearts. The other breaks it.

The first is the Nepal we romanticize. The one we long for. The one that smells like home-cooked food and sounds like laughter during deusi bhailo. It’s the Nepal of winter sun and suntala, of Dashain kites soaring in the sky, and houses glowing with Tihar lights. It’s the smell of incense during puja, the chaos of a family celebration, and the neighbor who brings you sel roti just because.

It’s that feeling of walking down a street and being known. It’s the comfort of familiarity. The sound of bhajan in the morning, and the collective hush when Kantipur ko news comes on at 9. It’s a country that, in all its imperfections, still manages to feel like magic.

But there’s another Nepal.

And that’s the one we want to escape.

It’s the Nepal where talent too often means nothing unless it’s backed by connections. Where the system moves for some but stands still for others. Where you watch friends leave one by one, not because they don’t love it here, but because they can’t grow here. It’s the Nepal that exhausts you with red tape, with bribes, with bhai halcha ni mentalities. The one where change feels impossible. Where dreams feel delayed. Or denied.

The strange thing is—it’s the same country. The Nepal you love and the one you resent exists in the same streets, the same seasons, the same festivals. This is what makes it so confusing.

You can sip chiya on your rooftop in winter, feel the sun on your face, hear kids yelling on the street, and think: there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
And the very next day, you’ll stand in a government office for six hours to get a stamp, only to be told to come back next week. And suddenly, you’re thinking: I can’t stay here anymore.

It’s not one or the other. It’s both. Always both.

For many millennials and Gen Z Nepalis, this duality is our deepest inner conflict. We are the first generation truly exposed to a global world that our parents didn’t prepare us for—because they couldn’t. They navigated survival. We’re navigating identity.

We grew up dreaming of leaving, but we didn’t know what it would cost. We wanted opportunity, but didn’t realize it would mean trading in community. We chased better futures, but now live with the guilt of not choosing to stay.

And even for those who stay, there's often a silent ache. An undercurrent of anger, resentment, and sometimes numbness. Because staying feels like choosing to fight a battle that never ends, and leaving feels like abandoning something sacred.

So where does that leave us?

We are a misunderstood generation—not because we don’t know what we want, but because we want things that seem incompatible. We want roots and wings. Belonging and freedom. A country that lets us dream, but also one that honors our traditions.

We don’t fully belong at home, and we don’t fully belong abroad. We live in limbo.

We scroll through photos of Nepal while standing in subway stations. We translate words that once came naturally. We celebrate Dashain on Zoom. And still, our hearts ache.

The real question isn’t whether we should stay or leave.
The question is: should we let go of the Nepal we love? Or hold onto it—and fight for it?

Because maybe that first Nepal—the one with sunlight and suntala, kites and community—isn’t gone. Maybe it’s just buried under layers of neglect, waiting for us to uncover it. Maybe the Nepal we dream of can exist again—not as a memory, but as a future.

We’re not naive for loving Nepal. We’re not ungrateful for wanting better.

We’re just a generation caught between what is and what could be.

And that’s a heavy place to live.

But maybe—just maybe—if enough of us hold on, and show up, and stop choosing between leaving or staying, and instead start choosing to shape, nurture, and fight for that dream, we won’t have to keep living in two Nepals.

We’ll finally build the one we deserve.