A huge part of my identity is that of expat. I’ve lived in four countries (each for 2+ years) during the last decade. I’ve moved for various reasons: Escape. A boy. Crisis. Adventure. A job. Family. Growth. Just because.
Every time I do it I think: I AM SO COOL. I GOT THIS. I AM BETTER THAN EVERYONE. LOOK AT ME GOOOOO!
Then I arrive. And I’m lonely. And tired. I hide a lot in my house. I cry.
Eventually, sometimes years later, I leave, filled with nostalgia and bittersweet memories, with no recollection of earlier difficulties. You’d think I’d know the pattern by now, but that hasn’t stopped me from picking up and traveling somewhere new.
If you’re just tuning in, here’s the story, from start (London, 2009) to “finish” (now, Germany, 2015).
First, I lived in London
Then I moved to New Zealand
Followed by a quarterlife crisis in Australia
Then back to New Zealand
Then San Francisco