Leaving your country is never trivial. When forced, it becomes an ordeal that fractures a life in many ways. Some people migrate by choice; others have no option but to go. For the latter, every step into the unknown cuts deep. The pain is dull, sometimes invisible, but it lodges in the mind.
To leave is to give up a part of yourself. You leave behind a story, familiar landmarks, familiar faces. You step into uncertainty, insecurity and a solitude that can crush.
Too often, we play down the emotional weight of exile, or ignore it. Every stage of the journey, from departure to arrival, piles on stress and can weaken a person’s mental balance further. And yet, for some, the nights fill with anguish, remorse, nightmares, sometimes hallucinations. The suffering often stays silent, but it leaves a lasting mark. As the rap group Yeleen put it so well in ‘Chemin de l’exil’, exile scars you deep in the soul.
Beyond the moving accounts, the data alarm just as much. People on the move face many hardships, not least psychological ones. Depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), psychosis, even suicidal thoughts: the risks are many and well documented. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), many migrants and refugees struggle to reach mental-health services, which deepens their vulnerability.
Migration, so often cast as an opportunity, is also a rupture, social, cultural and personal. An article in The Conversation makes the point plainly: migration opens doors, but it also exposes people to forms of violence, some of them invisible. Discrimination, exclusion, rejection, so many realities that erode migrants’ mental health. Research by Swiss academics shows that harsh reception conditions can both worsen existing disorders and trigger new ones, particularly post-traumatic stress and depression.
The symptoms are many, and they often overlap: hypervigilance, chronic anxiety, depression, physical pain with no clear cause. Each one signals a distress rooted in insecurity, in precarious status and in the struggle to fit in socially and at work. In an article from the University of Geneva, researchers describe these disorders as a direct reflection of lasting instability and a sense of exclusion.
The figures confirm the scale. A scientific report on migrants in Morocco finds that depression is a major driver of suicide, behind 40 to 80% of attempts worldwide. The migratory process, with its losses and its marginalisation, sharply raises the risk. The economic cost is staggering too: close to US$1 trillion in lost productivity every year.
Behind these figures stand real people. Take the Burkinabè writer Pélagie Nabolé, once a student in France. On arrival, she describes a heavy, almost suffocating solitude. It creeps in and eventually shakes the emotional balance. “It can slide into depression,” she confides. Her experience reminds us that the cost of leaving is not only economic or social, but deeply human.
There are ways forward. For Pélagie Nabolé, recovery runs through connection. Rebuild a social fabric, dare to ask for help, draw close to those who understand, whether fellow travellers, host communities or mental-health professionals. Each step helps break the isolation and begin to heal.
Beyond borders and statuses, one truth stands out. The mental health of migrants and refugees remains a major issue, still too often pushed aside. The suffering is invisible but real, and it deserves to be heard, understood and cared for.
This is a sensitive subject. Anyone struggling with these feelings can reach out to a health professional or a trusted person for support.
