When I left for university at 18, I had no idea when I might live here permanently again. I didn’t want to at that point and, over the next 20 years or so, I kept moving from place to place studying and working – most recently in New Zealand where I lived for seven years. As I got older and began thinking about where I wanted to put roots down, nowhere but Guernsey felt right. There was no big catalyst to the move; it was simply time to come home.
But how? How do I move back to an island I feel so strongly connected to but haven’t lived on for so long? How do I find my place amongst a community of loved ones who I still know so well but who have their own busy, full lives that they’ve been building for the same time I’ve been away? How do I create a new life in an old place, completely on my own, when everyone I know now have priorities other than friendship? Is it possible to stay true to my values and honour the identity and lifestyle I’ve built for myself while moving back to a place where those might be challenged? I don’t know the answers, but since moving home seven months ago, I’ve been trying to find out.
Perhaps one imagines that those of us who return home as fully-fledged adults might do so with a ‘typical’ set of achievements ticked off the list; a husband/wife gained, maybe some kids, definitely a dog, a healthy savings account, an impressive job lined up and perhaps even organised enough to have already bought a house here (wait, who are we kidding?). While that all sounds fantastic, I can confirm that literally not a single thing I’ve written in the last three sentences is true for my situation.
It’s not been an easy transition and both circumstance and comparison have bitten me on the arse for a few reasons – my area of work is specialist and doesn’t exist over here so I don’t yet have a stable income. Due to this, I’m graciously being provided with a roof over my head by my long-suffering parents. While I’m grateful, almost every one of my core values as an independent adult is compromised by this. Most of the people in my world are married or in long-term relationships, have children and own beautiful homes. Meanwhile, I’ve been single forever, I don’t have children and I don’t own my own home.
I feel like I’m somewhat the Bridget Jones of Guernsey (although to be fair, even Bridget had a house, a job and a Mark Darcy).
I jest, of course, because self-deprecatory mocking is my defence mechanism of choice. I realise that there are things in my life I have accomplished – having a career I’m proud of, creating a fully independent life by myself on the opposite side of the world, forming friendships in multiple places, hiking for miles solo across the mountains and perhaps, most importantly, becoming a cat-mum to Marlow who is now potentially Guernsey’s most expensive and well-travelled pet, having moved from NZ with me.
But even with all of that, my experience so far is that when you haven’t ticked off the ‘typical’ markers for success at the appropriate times it can feel pretty lonely. Does Guernsey emphasise that for me? Yes, absolutely. But I’m determined to make life here work for me, for reasons related to both the love for my island and a stubbornness to prove that it is possible to live a life that’s slightly different to the ‘norm’.
As I’ve been trying to re-build my life (aka swinging rapidly between ‘This feels right, everything will work out, trust the process’ and ‘What in the ever-loving f*** have you done?’), I’ve had a heap of anxious energy that I’ve channelled into writing. Much to my surprise, the Guernsey Press thought perhaps others might want to read it. And so here we are, at the start of what I hope will be a regular place for me to share my thoughts on starting over on Guernsey in my late 30s. In and among my musings about moving home, I also want to write about some of the themes that have kept coming up for me at this point in my life – loneliness (or alone-ness), long-term singlehood, changing friendships as we age and navigating complexities of this, being a child-free friend in a world of parents, dealing with uncertainty and making big decisions solo. I’d also like to share more about my time in New Zealand and how finding a second home there has helped shape who I am now.
I should also mention what I do for a living since it provides an extra layer to my current identity crisis. I’m a forensic psychologist; I qualified 10 years ago and have worked and studied in the psychology space for 19 years.
Being a psychologist interweaves itself into most of my life; I’m naturally a deep thinker, reflective, analytical and curious about others. I sit with an internal conflict between feeling relatively competent in a profession which revolves around helping others navigate the complexity of their lives but mostly inept when it comes to navigating the complexities of my own life. As a psychologist, I wonder if perhaps others presume I have my s*** together a lot more than I do. Indeed, perhaps I should? But I don’t and I want to write about that because, ultimately, I think shared vulnerability equals strength.
I hope that by being vulnerable myself, I can normalise (and perhaps humanise) the complex experience of ‘making healthy choices’ and living with circumstances or situations that don’t align with what you thought you wanted, or what you think you should be doing. Because I also know that even if we do meet the ‘acceptable’ markers of success, this doesn’t guarantee happiness. I hope this can be a space where I offer some personal reflection that might resonate with others, declare a commitment to holding myself accountable for my own happiness, honour the opportunities I have to be able to help myself, and mix it all up with some humour, relatability, and cats, of course.
