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🇳🇱 "Thought moving to the Netherlands would finally fix my life. But one night, I found myself sitting on the cold floor of my tiny room in Amsterdam, and I realized — there was nothing left inside me." My name is Fatou Diallo. I’m 34 years old. About a year and a half ago, I moved to Amsterdam. When the plane landed at Schiphol Airport, I looked out the window at the rain, the lights, the grey sky — and honestly, for the first time in years, I felt a spark of hope. Everyone back home kept telling me: "You’re lucky. Europe changes lives." And I believed them. I sold almost everything I owned before leaving. I borrowed money from my relatives. I promised my family that soon I’d have stability, a good job, and maybe even my own apartment. At first, my social media looked perfect. Constant walks, bikes, cozy cafes. People commented: "You’re living the dream." But nobody saw what happened after the camera turned off. I was renting a tiny room in the Nieuw-West district. It was so small that my suitcase had to stay under the bed because there was nowhere else to put it. The heater barely worked. In winter, I slept in two hoodies and thick socks. Finding a job was much harder than I expected. Every day, I crossed the city with my OV-chipkaart, going from one interview to another. It was always the same answers: "We need someone with experience in the Netherlands," "We’ll get back to you." Nobody ever got back to me. The money disappeared faster every week. Almost 900 euros for rent. Groceries from Albert Heijn. Phone bills. Transport. I started cutting corners everywhere. Some weeks I survived on noodles, rice, and cheap bread. Sometimes I’d just drink water before bed so I wouldn’t feel the hunger. But the worst part was the loneliness. Amsterdam is full of people, but you still feel completely invisible. I lied to my family constantly. Every call became a performance: "How are things? — Good. Are you happy there? — Yes, of course." Then I’d hang up and sit in s
