reasons to love (and leave) the netherlands
The price of a country with a system that works
I live in a country where everything functions. I think it's slowly killing me.
I live in a country where everything functions. I think it's slowly killing me. Let me explain.
When my husband lost his biggest client four months ago, I logged into the government website, adjusted our expected income for the year, and two weeks later, money appeared in our account. Two weeks. No phone calls, no proving we deserved it, no bureaucratic nightmare. The system just worked.
When I drop my kid off at daycare, I don’t worry he’ll come home dead from a shooting. The roads are smooth, the healthcare won’t bankrupt us, and the schools are genuinely excellent. I can see my taxes at work everywhere I look. And yet...
I’m at the public pool watching everyone swim like frogs. Back and forth, back and forth, breaststroke in perfect unison down their designated lanes. Like they’ve been copy-pasted down the length of the pool. Groups of women chat while swimming, blocking lanes, and I navigate around them like an obstacle course because I’m not part of their conversation. I never am.
This is rural Zeeland. Old Zealand, as I like to call it. The one New Zealand was named after. The boonies. The Bible Belt. Far from the Amsterdam expat bubble. This is the Netherlands that expat Instagram doesn’t show you. Not because it’s bad, exactly, it’s just uncomfortable to name.
When my husband lost his biggest client four months ago, I logged into the government website, adjusted our expected income for the year, and two weeks later, money appeared in our account. Two weeks. No phone calls, no proving we deserved it, no bureaucratic nightmare. The system just worked.
When I drop my kid off at daycare, I don’t worry he’ll come home dead from a shooting. The roads are smooth, the healthcare won’t bankrupt us, and the schools are genuinely excellent. I can see my taxes at work everywhere I look. And yet...
I’m at the public pool watching everyone swim like frogs. Back and forth, back and forth, breaststroke in perfect unison down their designated lanes. Like they’ve been copy-pasted down the length of the pool. Groups of women chat while swimming, blocking lanes, and I navigate around them like an obstacle course because I’m not part of their conversation. I never am.
This is rural Zeeland. Old Zealand, as I like to call it. The one New Zealand was named after. The boonies. The Bible Belt. Far from the Amsterdam expat bubble. This is the Netherlands that expat Instagram doesn’t show you. Not because it’s bad, exactly, it’s just uncomfortable to name.
The country of four choices
By the way, parties involve sitting in a circle and talking for hours. Even weddings. This is not an exaggeration. Give enough space, [the Dutch will make a circle].
There are four types of peanut butter in the grocery store. Four. In America, there’s an entire aisle. Here, you get your four choices, you pick one, and you move on with your life.
Three brands of tea, each offering the same twenty flavors. Two dessert options at every birthday party, chosen from a rotation of the same four types.
Every village looks identical. Every street is lined with the same brick houses. The same neat gardens, with the same varietals of plants. The same bicycles. You could blindfold me, drop me in any small town in the country, and I wouldn’t have any idea where I was.
My husband recently pointed out something that helped me understand this better: the Netherlands is small.
Like, really small — roughly the size of the state of Maryland. It’s not realistic to have dozens of restaurant suppliers competing for business. So if every restaurant is getting its peanut sauce from a supplier, you’ve got two or three options max. In the States, even chain restaurants have proprietary sauces. Here, there aren’t loads of chains, and the ones that exist aren’t big enough to demand custom everything. The sameness isn’t some cultural conspiracy; it’s just logistical practicality in a tiny country.
But logistics don’t explain the pool frogs. Or the fact that I get stared at.
Three brands of tea, each offering the same twenty flavors. Two dessert options at every birthday party, chosen from a rotation of the same four types.
Every village looks identical. Every street is lined with the same brick houses. The same neat gardens, with the same varietals of plants. The same bicycles. You could blindfold me, drop me in any small town in the country, and I wouldn’t have any idea where I was.
My husband recently pointed out something that helped me understand this better: the Netherlands is small.
Like, really small — roughly the size of the state of Maryland. It’s not realistic to have dozens of restaurant suppliers competing for business. So if every restaurant is getting its peanut sauce from a supplier, you’ve got two or three options max. In the States, even chain restaurants have proprietary sauces. Here, there aren’t loads of chains, and the ones that exist aren’t big enough to demand custom everything. The sameness isn’t some cultural conspiracy; it’s just logistical practicality in a tiny country.
But logistics don’t explain the pool frogs. Or the fact that I get stared at.
The country of staring
I don’t fit the mold here, and people notice. I notice them noticing.
I like yoga pants and crop tops. Warm weather beach attire. Hipster dancer aesthetic. I have tattoos and a nose ring. For two years, I’ve worn those standard large circular Dutch glasses that everyone here seems to own, and I’ve hated every single moment of them. Dutch clothing makes me want to scream — it’s all so practical, so neutral, so... beige. I recently took a day trip to France with a fellow American just to go clothes shopping. Otherwise, I wait until I’m in the US to refresh the wardrobe.
I adjust my personality to fit the room. It’s a safety thing; I don’t like to cause conflict where I don’t feel safe. In the US, that was fine. I could code-switch, find my people, be fully myself in the right contexts, and appropriately professional in others. America has enough chaos and diversity that there’s room to be different. You can find your tribe.
Here, the mold is very specific, and when you fall outside it, you feel it. The staring isn’t hostile, exactly. It’s just observation. Like staring at a train wreck — it's not something you see very often, so it’s interesting.
You’re not doing it right. You’re not being normal. [Doe normaal.]
Honestly, I’m lonely.
I have three people I’d call budding friends — it took five years to get here, and two of those friends are American, one of whom lives an hour and a half drive away. The social entry points that exist are church, local sports clubs, established friend groups from childhood, work. Things that aren’t accessible to a remote-working, self-employed, non-religious expat living in rural Zeeland who doesn't speak the local dialect.
I’ve tried. I’m still trying.
But the truth is, integration advice written by Amsterdam expats doesn’t work out here in the provinces, and I’m living proof.
I like yoga pants and crop tops. Warm weather beach attire. Hipster dancer aesthetic. I have tattoos and a nose ring. For two years, I’ve worn those standard large circular Dutch glasses that everyone here seems to own, and I’ve hated every single moment of them. Dutch clothing makes me want to scream — it’s all so practical, so neutral, so... beige. I recently took a day trip to France with a fellow American just to go clothes shopping. Otherwise, I wait until I’m in the US to refresh the wardrobe.
I adjust my personality to fit the room. It’s a safety thing; I don’t like to cause conflict where I don’t feel safe. In the US, that was fine. I could code-switch, find my people, be fully myself in the right contexts, and appropriately professional in others. America has enough chaos and diversity that there’s room to be different. You can find your tribe.
Here, the mold is very specific, and when you fall outside it, you feel it. The staring isn’t hostile, exactly. It’s just observation. Like staring at a train wreck — it's not something you see very often, so it’s interesting.
You’re not doing it right. You’re not being normal. [Doe normaal.]
Honestly, I’m lonely.
I have three people I’d call budding friends — it took five years to get here, and two of those friends are American, one of whom lives an hour and a half drive away. The social entry points that exist are church, local sports clubs, established friend groups from childhood, work. Things that aren’t accessible to a remote-working, self-employed, non-religious expat living in rural Zeeland who doesn't speak the local dialect.
I’ve tried. I’m still trying.
But the truth is, integration advice written by Amsterdam expats doesn’t work out here in the provinces, and I’m living proof.
The trade-off
Sure. I'm a bit lonely. But when kid goes to daycare, and I think about school shootings, instead of the low-grade terror that my child might not come home that my American friends feel, I walk away from drop-offs with gratitude that I don’t have to carry that fear. Here, that specific nightmare doesn’t exist.
Two weeks after adjusting our income online, money appeared in my bank account. Dutch government assistance — toeslagen — was enough to cover part of our rent while we figured things out. I cried from relief. The system caught us before we had to feel desperate. Before, we had to panic about where we’d live or whether we could eat. In the US, we would have been scrambling, burning through savings, maybe moving in with family if we were lucky.
The roads are perfect. Healthcare is affordable. Dutch kids are extremely well educated, and encouraged to form their own opinions. I can see where my taxes go.
I feel safe. Maybe sometimes almost a little too safe. Seriously, it’s so safe, it’s boring (the most dangerous animal we have is a stoat, a tiny weasel-like mammal). But, honestly, as a Floridian, after the chaos and dysfunction and constant crisis mode of American life, boring is kind of nice.
I don’t have the big emotional swings I used to have. My life is more stable, more predictable, and yes, more mundane. Part of me wonders if those swings were trauma responses, anyway. Maybe this flatness is what healthy stability actually feels like.
Two weeks after adjusting our income online, money appeared in my bank account. Dutch government assistance — toeslagen — was enough to cover part of our rent while we figured things out. I cried from relief. The system caught us before we had to feel desperate. Before, we had to panic about where we’d live or whether we could eat. In the US, we would have been scrambling, burning through savings, maybe moving in with family if we were lucky.
The roads are perfect. Healthcare is affordable. Dutch kids are extremely well educated, and encouraged to form their own opinions. I can see where my taxes go.
I feel safe. Maybe sometimes almost a little too safe. Seriously, it’s so safe, it’s boring (the most dangerous animal we have is a stoat, a tiny weasel-like mammal). But, honestly, as a Floridian, after the chaos and dysfunction and constant crisis mode of American life, boring is kind of nice.
I don’t have the big emotional swings I used to have. My life is more stable, more predictable, and yes, more mundane. Part of me wonders if those swings were trauma responses, anyway. Maybe this flatness is what healthy stability actually feels like.
The sameness is what makes it work
The uncomfortable truth is that the sameness might be why it works.
When everyone follows the same social scripts, when everyone has roughly the same four choices, when conformity is the default, systems run smoothly. There’s less friction. Less debate about basics. Less chaos. The trains run on time (mostly). The bike lanes make sense (in cities, anyway — don’t get me started on rural car dependency). Things just... function.
The Dutch tolerance everyone talks about? Doe normaal is the unofficial national motto, and it means “act normal,” but it really means “act like everyone else.” Especially out here in the countryside, tolerance means “you do you, I do me, and we won’t bother each other.” It doesn’t mean celebrating differences as it does in America. It doesn’t mean accepting people who actually do things differently. You’re tolerated as long as you’re quiet. As long as you’re still, fundamentally, normal.
Because when everyone acts like everyone else, society hums along beautifully.
When everyone follows the same social scripts, when everyone has roughly the same four choices, when conformity is the default, systems run smoothly. There’s less friction. Less debate about basics. Less chaos. The trains run on time (mostly). The bike lanes make sense (in cities, anyway — don’t get me started on rural car dependency). Things just... function.
The Dutch tolerance everyone talks about? Doe normaal is the unofficial national motto, and it means “act normal,” but it really means “act like everyone else.” Especially out here in the countryside, tolerance means “you do you, I do me, and we won’t bother each other.” It doesn’t mean celebrating differences as it does in America. It doesn’t mean accepting people who actually do things differently. You’re tolerated as long as you’re quiet. As long as you’re still, fundamentally, normal.
Because when everyone acts like everyone else, society hums along beautifully.
Is it worth it?
Some days it feels like a fair trade. Other days it feels like I'm drowning in a pool full of frogs, wearing glasses I hate, surrounded by beige.
I won't pretend I want to be here forever. Some days, I feel my soul slowly dying. I worry about my kid growing up in a place that might snuff out his light, might sand down all his interesting edges in the name of fitting in.
But in the meantime, I do what I can. We travel to other countries when possible, just to breathe different air. To feel the sun sizzling my skin. To listen to thunder, and worry slightly about being killed by a wild animal. To remember what it feels like to be in a place with more than four choices, where yoga pants and nose rings don’t warrant stares.
Whether it’s worth it depends entirely on what you value and what you can tolerate. Some people thrive here. They find the stability liberating, the systems reassuring, the lack of choice simplifying. They don’t mind the sameness, or maybe they don’t even see it.
For me, it’s a trade I’m willing to make right now. I’m genuinely content with my life, even if that contentment is quieter and flatter than what I used to feel. My kid is safe. We’re financially stable. The future feels less precarious.
But there’s a price for living in a country that works, and that price is paid in small moments of difference, in swimming alone while everyone else moves in unison, in stares from strangers when you show up in a crop top, in birthday circles where you’re physically present, but not really part of it.
The Netherlands gave me safety and stability and a functioning government. In exchange, I gave up the emotional peaks and valleys, the diversity of choice, the room to be visibly different without consequence.
Some days that feels like a fair trade. Other days it feels like I’m drowning in a pool full of frogs, wearing glasses I hate, surrounded by beige.
But at least the pool is clean, well-maintained, and everyone stays in their lane.
But in the meantime, I do what I can. We travel to other countries when possible, just to breathe different air. To feel the sun sizzling my skin. To listen to thunder, and worry slightly about being killed by a wild animal. To remember what it feels like to be in a place with more than four choices, where yoga pants and nose rings don’t warrant stares.
Whether it’s worth it depends entirely on what you value and what you can tolerate. Some people thrive here. They find the stability liberating, the systems reassuring, the lack of choice simplifying. They don’t mind the sameness, or maybe they don’t even see it.
For me, it’s a trade I’m willing to make right now. I’m genuinely content with my life, even if that contentment is quieter and flatter than what I used to feel. My kid is safe. We’re financially stable. The future feels less precarious.
But there’s a price for living in a country that works, and that price is paid in small moments of difference, in swimming alone while everyone else moves in unison, in stares from strangers when you show up in a crop top, in birthday circles where you’re physically present, but not really part of it.
The Netherlands gave me safety and stability and a functioning government. In exchange, I gave up the emotional peaks and valleys, the diversity of choice, the room to be visibly different without consequence.
Some days that feels like a fair trade. Other days it feels like I’m drowning in a pool full of frogs, wearing glasses I hate, surrounded by beige.
But at least the pool is clean, well-maintained, and everyone stays in their lane.
Anne-Marie Traas
