There are three lines at the customs counter when you arrive in a new country.
One says “Citizens.” Another says “Flight Crew.” The last one says “Foreigners.”

For years, I knew exactly which line was mine.

The Line I Used to Stand In

The first few times I came to Brazil, I went straight to “Foreigners.” I’d glance over at the citizen line—shorter, faster, familiar—with quiet envy.

It wasn’t just about speed. It was symbolic.

The way officers greeted people in that line wasn’t transactional. They weren’t processing visitors; they were welcoming people home.

I told myself it didn’t matter. A line is a line. But somewhere underneath, I felt it—the distance between passing through and actually belonging.

Why Residency Gets Overlooked (But Shouldn’t)

In global mobility circles, everyone fixates on passports — second citizenships, visa-free access, and passport power rankings.

Residency cards rarely make the conversation. But here’s what most people miss: a residency card grants nearly all the same rights that a passport does — the ability to live, work, bank, invest, own property, access healthcare, and build a life — without having to become a citizen.

The only thing a residency card doesn’t do is serve as a travel document. You can’t use it to cross international borders on its own — you still need a passport for that.
But once you’re inside the country, residency gives you full access to its systems and society, just like a citizen.

And here’s the key difference:
Passports take years, energy, and often enormous cost to acquire.
Residencies can be obtained much faster — and usually with fewer strings attached.

Most residencies just need to be maintained by spending time in the country every so often (with exceptions like Mexico’s permanent residency, which doesn’t even require renewal).

That’s the beauty of it: you don’t have to become a citizen to enjoy the privileges of one.
Residency gives you almost everything

The Day Everything Changed

Years later, I returned to Brazil during COVID restrictions.

By then, I had permanent residency — not citizenship, just that small plastic card most people overlook.

Under Brazilian law, foreigners without legal residency needed proof of vaccination to enter.

Being a non-citizen, I joined the foreigner line.

When my turn came, the officer looked up and asked for my vaccination card.

I told him I didn’t have one — but I had this. I slid my residency card across the counter.

He studied it. Flipped it over. Checked the photo. Then he paused, looked up, and smiled.

In Portuguese, he said:

“Cara, você não precisa ficar aqui com os estrangeiros. Da próxima vez que chegar, entra pela fila dos cidadãos.”

Translation:

“Hey man, you don’t gotta stay here with these foreigners. Next time you come in, go through the citizen line. This stuff doesn’t apply to you.”

It landed deep.

What That Moment Actually Meant

Because belonging isn’t just paperwork or borders. It’s being recognized as one of us.

That line wasn’t just a physical division — it was a boundary between visitor and resident, outsider and insider, temporary and rooted.

And with one sentence, someone moved me across it.

I hadn’t announced myself or demanded recognition. I just showed up — and someone saw me clearly enough to say: You’re standing in the wrong place. You belong over there now.

That’s when I understood: residency isn’t just a legal status.
It’s a form of belonging without ceremony — acceptance without needing permission every time you cross a border.

The Lines We Stand In Out of Habit

There’s a version of that customs line everywhere in life.

We stand in lines we’ve outgrown — not because we have to, but because we didn’t notice we don’t belong there anymore.

The entrepreneur still thinking like an employee.
The parent still living like they’re single.
The resident still acting like a tourist.

We wait in the longer line. We show documents we don’t need to show.
We justify our presence to people who already see us as belonging.

Not because the system requires it — but because we haven’t internalized what we’ve already become.

You’ve Already Earned It

If you’ve ever built a business across borders, raised a family in a country that wasn’t your birthplace, or constructed a life that doesn’t fit neatly into one passport — you know what it feels like to stand between worlds.

Never fully here. Never fully there. Always explaining. Always proving.

That residency card in your wallet isn’t just plastic and ink.
It’s proof you did the work. You stayed. You built something. You became part of the fabric.

You’re not waiting for permission to belong.
You already have it.

Next time, go through the citizen line.