But you don't have Canadian experience: That phrase tore me down as an immigrant but also made me resilient

I sat crossways the desk from the hiring manager, trying to calm my knee joint from nervously tapping as he reviewed my resumé. 

He looked at it and said, almost kindly, “You feature a lot of see but not Canadian experience.”

That phrase would follow me everywhere.

I had come from Nepal to Canada under the skilled worker program in 2011 with a master’s degree in English — the very credential that had qualified me to immigrate, but not to land a job. 

When my credentials were assessed by immigration officials, my degree was deemed equivalent to a Canadian bachelor’s. But the reality was different in the hiring market, and that's when I realized the disconnect. Turns out my degree wasn’t even enough to qualify for the graduate program I’d hoped to join.

I tried for office jobs, but nothing ever came through. Then I started applying for what some immigrants sometimes call “survival jobs.” I told myself it was temporary, but when I handed over my resumé at a warehouse agency in Toronto and saw the recruiter frown at my degree — not in disbelief, but because the office job I’d applied for required only a high school diploma — I felt something inside me deflate. My master’s degree counted far too much and not enough at the same time.

I went home that day and didn’t tell my wife how much that small moment stung.

When even the warehouse didn’t call me back, I completed security guard training and obtained a licence in Ontario later that same year. 

It was a world away from my former life in Nepal, where I had spent years teaching at elementary and high schools, lecturing at a university and working in public affairs. But being a security guard gave me the stability I needed to support my family and start over. 

Still, every time I put on the uniform, I felt a quiet ache of invisibility. “Deskilling” didn’t quite capture it. It felt more like my identity had been quietly erased.

Back home in Nepal, I had taught at a university, held a graduate degree and enjoyed the quiet privileges that came with being male and upper caste.

In Nepal, I belonged to what some might call the “upper echelon.”

In Canada, all of that vanished overnight.

I was now an immigrant, a permanent resident and, according to the box I ticked on my immigration form, a visible minority. I was no longer seen through the lens of what I had accomplished, but through what I lacked: Canadian experience.

It reminded me of an experience I had while working for BBC Media Action in Kathmandu. I helped produce a radio drama called Katha Mitho Sarangiko, and one episode told the story of Nepali women returning home after working as domestic helpers in the Persian Gulf. Many had faced exploitation abroad and ostracism when they came back.

At the time, I felt sympathy for them, but not solidarity. Their struggles seemed distant from mine.

That changed in Canada.

When I was called “overqualified” and yet not qualified enough for even the simplest job, I began to understand those women’s stories differently.

The circumstances were different, but the feeling of being unseen — of having to rebuild one’s dignity from scratch — felt hauntingly familiar.

That realization taught me something about resilience. Those women had found ways to start over despite everything. In my own smaller way, I began to do the same.

About 10 months after immigrating, I decided to go back to school.

Before coming to Canada, I had dreamed of earning a PhD in English literature — a dream that was partly mine and partly my father’s. He had left Nepal as a child to work in India and eventually joined the Indian army. He carried that legacy — the hardship, the discipline, the long distances from home — so his children could have choices he never did.

When I struggled to find work in Canada, I often thought of him — how he had started over in a foreign place and built a life from nothing. Going back to university felt like continuing that journey, connecting his sacrifices to my own search for belonging.

I was eventually admitted to a master’s program in English at the University of Waterloo. But when the admissions office asked for an extra letter of reference because they weren’t familiar with my university in Nepal, something in me wavered. For a moment, I felt as if all the years I had spent studying and striving might not count here — that familiar, quiet ache of being an outsider stirring again.

Returning to school meant leaving my job at a time when my wife was still looking for work and our five-year-old daughter had just started school. I didn’t know how we’d manage financially.

When I learned I was eligible for student loans and a teaching assistantship, I cried. For the first time since arriving in Canada, I felt seen — that my potential mattered and that the system could recognize me as more than a “visible minority.”

Over time, I rebuilt a career that reconnected me with what I loved most: research, teaching, storytelling and community. My family grew alongside that journey: my wife — who earned a master’s in Nepal — also became a nurse after getting her Canadian degree, my older daughter is studying nursing at McMaster University in Hamilton and our Canadian-born little one is now in Grade 3.

Canada prides itself on multiculturalism, and in many ways, that pride is justified. But my experiences have shown me that multiculturalism often celebrates diversity more easily than it values it.

In the Waterloo region, where I live, the annual multicultural festival is vibrant and joyful — full of food, music and dance from around the world. 

I love that I can also celebrate my Nepali heritage here, whether it’s cooking traditional dishes with ingredients from local grocery stores, enjoying momos at a Nepali restaurant or sharing festivals like Dashain and Tihar with friends and family. 

But deeper inequities in employment and representation persist in Canada. It’s one thing to showcase difference; it’s another to build systems where that difference truly shapes decisions and outcomes.

Over time, I’ve come to see the contradictions of immigrant life — pride and alienation, gain and loss — as part of a fuller story.

Immigration changed my social position and sense of self in ways that were both traumatic and transformative. There were moments I felt invisible, yet also proud to belong to more than one world.

Some days, I feel at home in Canada. On others, I still feel as if I’m standing just outside the frame. But I’ve learned that belonging isn’t something you earn with “Canadian experience.” It’s something you rebuild, piece by piece, until the place where you once felt invisible begins to see you again.

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Freelance contributor

Hari KC came to Canada from Nepal in 2011. He researches migration and integration at Toronto Metropolitan University and is a fellow at the Balsillie School of International Affairs in Waterloo, Ont.

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