When One Year Turns to Three

Visualise this: a tiny coastal town 500km north of the closest city. A single general store with a handful of salt-worn beach shacks and a couple of fishing boats lining the horizon. Not exactly the place you picture spending your mid-twenties. But alas, this is where I lived with my rescue cat, and a constant supply of gin to blur the loneliness I refused to acknowledge. 

But now picture London: a city bursting at the seams, where noise is constant and everything is always in motion. Eight housemates living in the one apartment, damp towels forever draped over radiators and rush hour on the underground. Looking back, I couldn’t have chosen a more different place to move to. 

I really didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I stepped off that plane with one suitcase and absolutely no clue what I was doing there. All I knew was that I needed a change of scenery, a break from the quiet, from the country. It’s no wonder I told myself I’d give London six months, a year at most. If I didn’t love it, I could always move home.

But I loved it.

I wasn’t expecting to love London life as much as I have. My original plan of staying for one year has completely gone out the window, and now I’m in the process of extending my visa for a third year.

Suddenly, I’m facing a question I never anticipated. Where exactly is “home” now?

Because I'm living two completely different lives.

If I won the lottery, I’d spend half my year in London and the other half in Australia. But unfortunately I don't even buy lottery tickets, and my teacher salary certainly won't cover that dream. 

So I'm back to square one. 

What does one do when their heart is split between two continents, both on complete opposite sides of the world? Both lifestyles are impossible to choose between because they offer utterly different realities.

London offers unlimited opportunities, europe on your doorstep, some of the most incredible people I’ve ever met and diverse teaching experiences. It has concerts and workshops, theatre shows and parties. Even in the depths of winter, there’s always something happening, somewhere to be, someone new to meet. Living here makes me feel like I’m truly making the most of my twenties.

But Australia offers my family. A slower, more laidback way of living. Space to breathe. Long walks on the beach, early morning swims, and unhurried catch-ups with my mum and sister. Sitting in the shed with my dad, talking about life. Long drives through the countryside, singing at the top of my lungs. Listening to kookaburras while drinking red wine on the balcony as the sun turns the sky pink and orange. 

Lately, I’ve really embraced the idea of not having a set plan. I’m extending my visa for another year in London, but nothing is set in stone either. I am allowing myself to be free to stay longer, or move home, whenever it feels right. One of my favourite quotes is by Heraclitus, and it goes, “The only constant in life is change.” And while that sounds scary, it can be exciting too. There is nothing that makes me live in the moment more than the thought of, “This is not forever, so enjoy it.” 

To be completely honest, I still really struggle with living abroad. Coming home is an extremity of emotions. The moment you see your family for the first time in months, it feels as though your heart could burst with joy. However, every minute together is shadowed by the knowledge that it will only last a few weeks. And then, worst of all, comes another gut-wrenching goodbye and the “so when will we see you next?” with no definitive answer, making my heart completely break in two. 

It is emotionally exhausting. 

Living abroad is romanticised, but the truth is it’s extremely challenging for so many reasons. The stomach cramps that start days before I fly back to London, born from the inevitable anxiety of leaving again, and the constant background noise of should I really be doing this? are enough to make me be sick.

So why do I keep going back?

If you’ve read my earlier blogs, you would have read how much I struggled with my mental health in the year leading up to my move to London. This low I experienced was essentially what lead me to London. I had nothing to lose so I quit my job and booked a one-way flight. 

And since the move, my life has changed so much for the better. And not just becasue of the new friends I have made, the life experiences, or the travel. It’s the personal growth, the eye-opening and humbling experience of completely changing your life. Each year in London has taught me more and more about life and what I want from it. It is the city where, after twenty five years, I stopped feeling lost. Ironically, in a city of nine million, I finally felt found.

I’m starting to learn that “home” isn’t just a house, a city, or a person. As incredible as it is to be with your family and your partner, in a place you truly love, I’ve learned that home can also be a feeling, the one rooted in knowing yourself. When you truly know yourself and feel comfortable in your own skin, you can feel at home anywhere: in the streets of London, the beaches of Australia, and anywhere in between that you choose to venture. 

And there’s something wonderfully freeing about that. In the end, the home I’d been searching for had been within me all along.

A x