For anyone who does not follow me on social media, or does, but has been living on a completely different planet this past couple of months, I’ve moved to London! Yes, that’s right, I’ve undertaken the seemingly popular Australian rite-of-passage and packed up shop in Brisbane to make the 16,000 kilometre move to the motherland of English breakfast tea, overcast days, and Brexit.
I’ve been very quiet on this blog about the move for two reasons mainly. One, because I was busy learning basic life skills, such as how to work a washing machine, how to rent a house, and how to make five VERY basic dinner meals, and two, because I didn’t know how to feel about moving to England- which is actually quite ironic considering how sure of my decision I was three months ago.
I crossed the UK border on the 18th February after visiting France and Italy with my Mum and immediately started looking for a place to rent. In the coming couple of weeks Mum and I were switching between playing tourist and sorting out my life; one day we would go and visit Stonehenge and the next day we were viewing houses and setting up a bank account. By the 2nd of March I had setup the three hardest pieces of the moving abroad puzzle; I had a job, I had a bank account, and I had a room to rent.
Dad had said to me before I left home that the whole moving to the other side of the world thing probably wouldn’t hit me until Mum had said goodbye to me at the airport to board her flight back to Brisbane, and I hate to say it, but he was completely right. After seeing Mum pass through passport control I headed to the closest airport bathroom, sat in the cubicle and cried for an hour. The build up of emotions were partially because I was saying goodbye to my best friend and partially because I was now on my own. It finally hit me that I wasn’t in Australia anymore, that I wasn’t surrounded by my incredible family, that I didn’t have the comfort of the big, spacious house that I grew up in, that I didn’t have the few friends I had close by, and that I didn’t have the life that I was accustomed to anymore. It hit me that things were about to change, and it hit me that nothing would ever be the same again. I was scared because I had no idea what I had gotten myself in to.
I’ve been here for close onto two months now and every day things get that little bit easier; I get that little bit more comfortable and I get that little bit more settled. I’m starting to get the hang of my new job that I’ve come to love and completely enjoy, I’ve settled into my flat and I’m gradually filling my room with knick knacks that make my house feel more like my own piece of space rather than a landlord’s business venture, and I’m trying to push myself that little further everyday in terms of making friends and meeting new people (something that I completely avoided at home).
Almost two months in and I don’t regret anything so far. The beginning is always the hardest part and I feel like I’ve just passed that phase. Don’t get me wrong, I have days where I just want to give up on everything, jump on a plane, and go home to be with my family, but that’s when I remind myself that I’m doing something that I’ve wanted for so long, and that 90% of the time it’s incredible. The other 10% sucks when it hits, but that’s when you take the time to have a good cry and then get over it. I find that reminding myself that nothing at home changes and that if it gets to a point where I find myself in a really bad place, home is just a 21 hour plane ride away.
This is my sixth week of living in London and I have no plans to go home anytime soon. I promised myself that I would give this new life six months, and right now, six months doesn’t seem like enough. Not to bark up my own tree or anything like that, but I think I’m too proud of myself to give in just yet. To conclude, I’m okay, I’m happy, and I can’t wait to see what the next six months brings.