[When I think about this story, I hear two voices telling it. The enthusiastic, naive, excited H deciding to „go for it” and the wiser, amused and slightly more mature H telling the story now, after realizing that “What was I thinking?!” is a proper and justified reaction to everything I have done in the last year and 2 months. The wise, present H writes in italics, because she is cooler.]
You decide to emigrate. Your decision could be based on a number of reasons: you want a better job and a better life, you feel lost and stuck in your own country, you simply need a change of scenery and you have the means (or the despair) to do it internationally (as opposed to, you know, a weekend in the countryside). I must have been simply bored. Or depressed. Both, most probably.
I decided to leave my country, my friends, my family, my work colleagues (but not my work entirely: enter the perks of working from home) in search of something elusively defined as “happiness”. I thought happiness will be found anywhere except where I was, so all I had to do was leave the place I had been all my life and happiness will await me.
Everything you miss in your life will be on the other side of the border: nicer people (?!), better jobs, beautiful cities, fun and meaning of life. A new You. You can do anything, right? You can be anyone you want to be.
It turned out the only thing I got right was the one about beautiful cities.
Of course, before leaving, you tell yourself cheerfully that you can always come back if things don’t work out. “But honestly, what could go wrong?”. Everything, maybe?
You can always come back. But come back to what? Who are you anymore? Uprooted and derailed, you do not feel as if you can belong anywhere.
Happiness doesn’t wait for anyone anywhere. Or at least it did not know I was coming.