Why I Keep a No-Shoes Rule at Home: A Nepali Student’s Cultural Practice in Boston

“You can take me out of Nepal, but you can’t take the Nepali out of me.”

That phrase has echoed in my head more than once since I left home. And nowhere does it show up more consistently than at the entrance of my apartment.

Welcoming guests, hosting gatherings, meeting new people—that’s always been my thing. But there’s one house rule I never compromise on: no shoes inside. It’s not about being uptight or overly clean. It’s about honoring something deeper. And honestly, it’s one of the few cultural habits I’ve carried with me across cities, dorms, shared apartments, and now, my own space.

Without fail, when someone walks into my home, the first thing they hear isn’t “Hi” or “Welcome!” It’s: “This is a no-shoes household.” The greeting comes after.

Old Habits, Deep Roots

They say old habits die hard, but this one never even tried to. I carried it from my childhood in Nepal, through the international dorm rooms where I was too shy to explain it, to apartments where roommates felt awkward asking guests to comply. And now, living alone, it’s non-negotiable. It's not just a habit—it's a cultural anchor.

In many Asian, African, and Scandinavian cultures, removing your shoes at the door is standard practice. But in Nepali culture, it’s more than custom—it’s sacred. Our homes are not just places we sleep or work—they’re treated like temples (ghar jasto mandir). We believe that keeping our space clean and spiritually pure allows it to function as a refuge, a sanctuary for the soul.

Wearing outside shoes indoors not only tracks dirt, germs, and pollution—but symbolically, it’s bringing the chaos of the outside world into a space meant for peace.

A Global Tradition with Shared Wisdom

Interestingly, this isn’t just a Nepali thing. According to a 2019 study published in the Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, the soles of shoes can carry toxins, bacteria, and even E. coli. Researchers from the University of Arizona found that an average shoe contains over 400,000 bacteria, with 90% transferred to clean floors within minutes.

That might be why a 2022 YouGov poll revealed that 87% of people in Japan and 87% in Sweden remove their shoes at the door. Canada, Korea, India, Finland, and yes—Nepal—follow similar norms. In contrast, only about 25% of Americans reported removing their shoes at home consistently. So while the rule might feel unusual in some households here, it’s common sense elsewhere.

But for me, it was never about statistics. It was about the feeling—that small, sacred pause at the door.

Identity Markers in Everyday Rituals

For those of us navigating life abroad, these tiny rituals become acts of cultural preservation. They’re our way of saying, “I’m still connected. I still remember.”

Whenever I visit another Asian or Nepali household, I instinctively take my shoes off. It’s not even a conscious choice—it’s muscle memory. That quiet moment at the threshold, standing in socks or barefoot, reminds me of visiting my grandparents. Of entering a mandir. Of helping sweep the floor before guests arrived.

That pause—before you step in, before the conversation starts—is not just respectful. It’s ritualistic, symbolic, grounding. It connects us to something we often forget in the rush of Western lifestyles: that how we treat our space is how we treat ourselves.

Not About Rigidity—About Rootedness

Sometimes people are surprised by my “no shoes” rule. A few have laughed it off. Others, thankfully, respect it without hesitation. But no matter the reaction, I always hold the line. Because this habit isn’t about being difficult or dramatic.

It’s about staying rooted while adapting—not assimilating completely, not letting go of what makes my upbringing beautiful. I may live in Boston now. I may speak English more often than Nepali. But these small rituals keep me grounded in who I am.

And honestly? They make my space feel like home.

Final Thought: The Doorway as a Border Between Worlds

The doorway to your home is more than just an entry point. It’s a border between two worlds—the outside and the inside, the public and the personal, the chaotic and the calm. In Nepali culture, it’s where we transition into presence, peace, and respect.

So, when you walk into my apartment and I ask you to take off your shoes, know that it’s not just a rule. It’s an invitation to step into something sacred. Something Nepali. Something about me.

And who knows—you might even find it feels more like home that way, too.