I get this comment constantly.

“You’re not an expat. You’re an immigrant.”
“Stop calling yourself an expat.”
“You Americans love calling yourselves expats everywhere else, but call us immigrants when we come to your country.”

On the surface, it sounds like trolling.

But here’s the thing: it’s not a stupid question.

It’s actually a very real one.

Because the moment you use one word instead of the other, people react.

“Expat” feels one way.
“Immigrant” feels another way.

And depending on which word you choose, you can sound adventurous… privileged… opportunistic… defensive… or completely unaware.

So instead of arguing in comment sections, let’s actually break it down.

If I’m an American living long-term in Colombia — with residency, paying into the system — what am I?

An expat?

An immigrant?

Both?

Neither?

Let’s unpack it.

Before we get emotional, let’s get technical.

Immigrant: Someone who moves to a country other than their native one to live there, usually permanently.

Expat (Expatriate): Someone living outside their native country.

Notice something important?

Neither definition mentions:

Legally speaking, most countries don’t even use the word “expat.” On official paperwork, you’re either:

There’s no checkbox for “Adventurous Lifestyle Expat.”

So by strict definition, if you move to another country and stay long-term, you are:

Both can be true at the same time.

So if the dictionary doesn’t draw a hard line — why do we?

Here’s where it gets interesting.

In real life, we absolutely do not use these words interchangeably.

Think about it.

A British banker moves to Dubai.
We call him an expat.

An American moves to Medellín to work remotely.
Expat.

A Canadian retires in Costa Rica.
Expat.

Now flip it.

A Colombian moves to Miami.
Immigrant.

A Mexican moves to Texas.
Immigrant.

A Guatemalan moves to Los Angeles.
Immigrant.

Same basic action:
Someone leaves one country and builds a life in another.

But we instinctively choose different words.

Why?

It’s not in the dictionary.

It’s in our cultural wiring.

Here’s the global pattern:

Not a rule.

But a pattern.

Americans in Thailand? Expat.
Thai families in America? Immigrant.

Germans in Argentina? Expat.
Argentinians in Germany? Immigrant.

And here’s another pattern:

“Expat” often sounds:

“Immigrant” often sounds:

Those are emotional impressions — not legal distinctions.

And that’s where the tension lives.

Let’s ask the uncomfortable question.

When someone relocates with:

We call them expats.

When someone moves and sends money home every month to support family?

Immigrant.

One sounds like choice.
The other sounds like necessity.

Now, we have to be careful here.

It’s not that:

That’s too simplistic.

There are wealthy immigrants in the U.S.
There are Americans in Latin America living on tight budgets.
There are retirees, freelancers, entrepreneurs, students.

Money alone doesn’t define the word.

But perceived power does.

If someone looks like they had options, we lean toward “expat.”
If someone looks like they had to move, we lean toward “immigrant.”

That’s not linguistics.

That’s social psychology.

Because words carry emotional weight.

In the United States especially, “immigrant” is heavily politicized.

It lives in:

“Expat” doesn’t live in headlines.

It lives in:

It sounds lighter.

More aspirational.

So when someone says, “You’re not an expat, you’re an immigrant,” they’re not just correcting vocabulary.

They’re challenging tone.

They’re saying:

If you expect people to embrace that word when they move to your country, you should be comfortable wearing it too.

And honestly?

That’s not an unreasonable point.

Let’s bring this back to me.

I live in Colombia.

I’ve been here for years.
I have legal residency.
I pay into the system.
I contribute to the economy.
I’m not doing 90-day visa gymnastics.

By strict definition?

I immigrated to Colombia.

That’s accurate.

From the perspective of the United States?

I’m an American living abroad — an expatriate.

Also accurate.

These words aren’t opposites.

They’re different angles of the same reality.

If a Colombian moves to the U.S., we call them an immigrant.

If I move to Colombia, I shouldn’t be allergic to that same word.

If I expect respect for my move, I should respect theirs.

At the core, both words describe the same action:

A human being leaves one country and builds a life in another.

Some people move for:

Movement itself isn’t admirable or controversial.

It’s human.

And maybe instead of arguing over which word sounds better, we should be more interested in how we treat people who move.

Because one way or another?

We’re all somebody’s foreigner.

If I’m an immigrant in Colombia…

Are Americans immigrants everywhere else too?

If we use one standard for people entering our country, should we apply that same standard when we leave it?

That’s the deeper conversation.

Not vocabulary.

Consistency.

The dictionary doesn’t draw a hard line.

Government paperwork doesn’t draw a hard line.

We do.

“Expat” often feels like choice.
“Immigrant” often feels like necessity.

But both describe someone who left one home and built another.

And that’s not political.

That’s human.