Will I be homesick forever?

Hello, I’d like to make an appointment with the doctor, please…What is my ailment? Oh, I have two, actually. I have the travel bug and also homesickness… hello?… no, no I’m not… ah shit they hung up

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Ahh, homesickness. The odd, often unexpected and definitely uninvited older brother to FOMO. It can come as a sharp pang, such as seeing photos from a friend’s birthday dinner on Instagram. Or, as I find more common, it can present as a dull ache. As it turns out, the smell of a summer storm can remind you both of where you are and where you aren’t.

Homesickness seems simple: you leave home and you miss it, until you inevitably get used to being away and miss it a little less… right? Of course, it’s not quite that simple. Homesickness isn’t linear, just as the concept of “home” can mean more than just the place you grew up. You may find yourself homesick for a specific place, or a time, or a person. Or is it rose-tinted nostalgia? The enigmatic nature of homesickness, I’ve found, can be confusing. I’m sure that it’s healthy to an extent, though I personally don’t want to spend my time pining for the greener grass. So, I wonder: how do we decipher true homesickness from nostalgia? How do we reframe it into a positive? And how, Doctor, do we prevent the fear of being homesick getting in the way of cultivating a new home?

I have had my own varied experiences with homesickness, though growing up I was never one to fear being away from home. Neither a sleepover nor a school camp was ever ended with a frantic SOS call to Mum, and as a 14-year-old exchange student I didn’t want my time in an English boarding house to end. Naturally, a gap year was on the cards to satiate my #wanderlust, and even during this year I barely felt any pangs for home. It was a lovely thing to be so enthralled by these adventures without them being tainted by homesickness, so much so that it was a shock when I was finally afflicted.

I moved to London at 19, and blissfully couldn’t have predicted that I wouldn’t be back in Sydney any time soon (that trajectory would have scared me off). It was the first time that I was without a return flight, and subsequently the first time I shat my metaphorical pants in fear. I knew barely anyone, money was scarce and was lodging in North London in the middle of winter. Unsurprisingly, I missed home, and this was when I experienced my most intense and obvious homesickness. I missed my friends and my family, but it was the uncertainty of how long I’d be away that I found the scariest. However, there is nothing quite like the adrenaline of desperation as a distraction. I trucked along, made some pals, and in the clichéd way they tend to, things got better with time. I distinctly remember a turning point after about six months when I allowed myself to call London home- until then I had had one foot at Heathrow departures. It sounds simple, but fully accepting the decision I’d made allowed me to become accountable for my own happiness. As difficult and lonely as a big move can be, acting the martyr is to do yourself a disservice.

For the rest of my time in London I was extremely happy. This was a time I learned to be truly self-sufficient, to create daily habits that could keep me grounded, and to create a home that felt safe (in this case, a flat with friends and offensively orange carpets). I was so content, in fact, that when the career opportunity to move to New York arose I was hesitant. I had managed to channel the deep initial homesickness into creating a life that I loved, and was therefore extremely protective over it. The thought of doing it all over again was terrifying, but this wasn’t a valid reason not to try. I coaxed a dose of courage, booked the flight, and found solace in knowing that I’d done it once so I could prooobably do it again.

In some ways this move was a lot easier- I had already spent a lot of time in New York and actually had friends there(!!!). I was once again scared and broke in a new city, but this wasn’t my first rodeo. I mounted the bull of fear and clung on (stunning metaphor, Kato). The homesickness I felt this time was not so acute, but more confusing as I found myself missing both Sydney and London. It was less of an intense pining, more of a mourning: I knew that to be content in New York I needed to commit to this new home, which meant once again letting go of my old one. It is a curious thing to realise that “home” isn’t a finite place or situation, but rather a safe space that needs to be consciously cultivated.

I have now lived in New York for three years, and am happy to report that I made it through that rough patch. The biggest challenge this time has been to avoid ruminating on alternate paths. I feel lucky to have three cities that I love, but I have had to consciously avoid imagining these parallel lives. I try to appreciate the fond memories, without getting consumed by a nostalgia that can interfere with life here. I do sometimes catch myself with one foot out the door, but I try and remind myself that this is because I’m excited about where life may take me, not because I’m running away from it.

I won’t be in New York forever, and that means that I’ll inevitably have to move again. Even if I were to return to Sydney, my first home, I am sure that I would feel homesick for New York. It is this reality that I find strangely comforting: I can call more than one place home. While this may mean that I am, to some extent, going to be homesick forever, it is only because I’ve had the courage and privilege to get out there in the big, bad world.