Suddenly, in the midst of a cold English winter, I decided I was going home. I held my decision close for months. I had applied for jobs in Ireland selectively over the years, repeating my intention to make a life there, but my colleagues had heard it from Irish people before, and I think they never really believed it. When I finally did hand in my notice they counselled against such a rash move. I still had no job to go home to.
My professional work is about immigration, so alongside job-hunting I read everything I could about returning migrants. I listened to Irish radio to catch up on the chat. I planned for the higher living costs. I even learned to declutter by giving away my books, which prompted friends to take my departure rather more seriously.
Back in Dublin my impending return was no secret. We celebrated my decision. I laughed and joked with friends about what great times we would have when we were all together again, with their kids who had been born and become people while I was away.
I finally found a good job in Ireland, packed up my flat and was grateful to family and friends for welcoming me home with open arms. My boyfriend booked almost weekly visits for the first few months, to help me settle into my new job without the pressure to travel. I was in the best position anybody coming home could hope for.
I read another story in the Generation Emigration section of The Irish Times about a woman who, home from the US after 30 years, was shocked by the difference and prepared to feel like an outsider for a long time to come. For me it was different. I had been home every two months right through the 12 years I was away. I thought I would slip easily into Dublin life.
It started after about a month. I couldn’t place the breathlessness that would hit me out of nowhere, making me exhausted and tearful. I blamed exhaustion and ongoing bronchitis, but I knew it was more than that.
Nothing felt normal. The exhilaration of the move home had dissipated, the pressures of a new job and a long commute were isolating, and I had started to feel the absence of everything I had left behind. I worried.
For three months I could not put words to the roller coaster I was on. I couldn’t explain it to family and friends in Ireland; it felt like disloyalty to admit missing my other life. I missed my friends in England. A while back a few of us had talked about quitting our jobs and moving to other places. It seemed exciting at the time, but I moved before they did, and then suddenly I was here and they were still there together – and I had left a hole in a fabric I could not see while I was still part of the pattern.
None of my friends could imagine that moving home to Ireland would have any trace of sadness for me; I had talked so much about Dublin. I never expected to grieve for a life overseas I willingly gave up. I suspect at least one close friend in England has not yet forgiven me for the betrayal of leaving. She no longer tells me her secrets, denies me the privileges of our close friendship. I don’t think she really believed I would leave either.
Other close friends acknowledged my future absence and planned early visits. In turn I accepted their need to make plans without me, even though it stung.
But now, the other side of Christmas, it’s easier to see the bigger picture. The “Goodbye and Good Luck!” cards on the wall in my new home don’t make me so sad any more. Photos of friends start to populate the wall, too, reminding me that I used to love living across two countries and travelled easily between them – and to remind me not to be too careless with the friends I left behind.
