Once you start your life as an expat you realise 'you can never go home again'. You're destined to permanently exist in a state of longing. I moved across the ocean at the age of 22, thinking I would return a year or so after my course finished. But 5 years later, and I'm still here.
Throughout my childhood and early adult years I always felt like I didn't quite fit in. Raised by a first generation European, I heard tales of a land far away with a distinct culture, an exotic language and old world charm. We had a chest that sat in a place of pride in our living room and acted as the coffee table. From time to time, I would kneel down in front of it, take the books and tablecloth off the top, and gently lift the lid of the wooden box. Once inside I would run my hand over the carved Norwegian flag, and tentatively remove each individual item, examining each prized piece of treasure. Every item had it's own story, and told of a time when my father lived in Norway, and backpacked through Europe. The chest had been my grandfather's, which he used when he moved to the US during World War II. It had such a sense of history to it. The act of discovering each relic soon began to provide me with such a strong link with a country I'd never known, and a culture I was not yet a part of.
I've yet to make it to Norway but I like to think that I live in the next best place, in a country just a stone's throw from it, where the language is my own. The culture here in the UK suits my personality. It is not as superficial or materialistic of a culture as it is in America. Pubs are for having a drink and a chat with good friends. Travel is so easy here in such a small country. In just a few hours I can be in Wales or Scotland. Hopping on a plane can land me in Africa in just 6 hours. And London, well, it's frankly one of the best, if not THE best city in the world.
But it doesn't stop me missing my family and my friends; it doesn't stop me longing for those who know me inside out, who helped shape who I am today. After losing P so many people assumed I would flee back to the US, assuming my attachment to the UK was only dependent on my relationship. I am sure I disappointed many when I adamantly affirmed that I would be staying in the UK for the foreseeable future. 'My home is here' I thought. But as time goes on, I'm not sure I really have a home. That's the truth, for an expat. Because even if I returned to the town I grew up in, it wouldn't be the same. And I would long for the UK. I realised this a long time ago and clung to the idea that 'home is where the heart is' but my heart is with P, so what am I to do?
I love living here, where my memories of P and I are interwoven into the fabric of this country, but part of me knows he would want me to go back to the US. It was always our plan, after all. But that would have been different - a perfect amalgamation of the UK and the US for me. So would it really be easier there now? To start anew? Is it ever really possible to start over? Is it worse to never go home again? or to go home only to realise it's not as you left it and nothing is quite the same?
Once you've taken the leap into expat life, is there any going back?
Throughout my childhood and early adult years I always felt like I didn't quite fit in. Raised by a first generation European, I heard tales of a land far away with a distinct culture, an exotic language and old world charm. We had a chest that sat in a place of pride in our living room and acted as the coffee table. From time to time, I would kneel down in front of it, take the books and tablecloth off the top, and gently lift the lid of the wooden box. Once inside I would run my hand over the carved Norwegian flag, and tentatively remove each individual item, examining each prized piece of treasure. Every item had it's own story, and told of a time when my father lived in Norway, and backpacked through Europe. The chest had been my grandfather's, which he used when he moved to the US during World War II. It had such a sense of history to it. The act of discovering each relic soon began to provide me with such a strong link with a country I'd never known, and a culture I was not yet a part of.
I've yet to make it to Norway but I like to think that I live in the next best place, in a country just a stone's throw from it, where the language is my own. The culture here in the UK suits my personality. It is not as superficial or materialistic of a culture as it is in America. Pubs are for having a drink and a chat with good friends. Travel is so easy here in such a small country. In just a few hours I can be in Wales or Scotland. Hopping on a plane can land me in Africa in just 6 hours. And London, well, it's frankly one of the best, if not THE best city in the world.
But it doesn't stop me missing my family and my friends; it doesn't stop me longing for those who know me inside out, who helped shape who I am today. After losing P so many people assumed I would flee back to the US, assuming my attachment to the UK was only dependent on my relationship. I am sure I disappointed many when I adamantly affirmed that I would be staying in the UK for the foreseeable future. 'My home is here' I thought. But as time goes on, I'm not sure I really have a home. That's the truth, for an expat. Because even if I returned to the town I grew up in, it wouldn't be the same. And I would long for the UK. I realised this a long time ago and clung to the idea that 'home is where the heart is' but my heart is with P, so what am I to do?
I love living here, where my memories of P and I are interwoven into the fabric of this country, but part of me knows he would want me to go back to the US. It was always our plan, after all. But that would have been different - a perfect amalgamation of the UK and the US for me. So would it really be easier there now? To start anew? Is it ever really possible to start over? Is it worse to never go home again? or to go home only to realise it's not as you left it and nothing is quite the same?
Once you've taken the leap into expat life, is there any going back?
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