i have become the worst version of myself

A little over a month ago, I packed a year’s worth of my life in Spain into 30kg of luggage and moved home. Although I was looking forward to seeing family and friends, I was understandably anxious about how I would find living at home with my parents again after living independently for almost one year. I was worried about the transition and how I would cope giving up an element of control over my life. When I moved home from university after the second wave of Covid, I hated being back and would have done anything to be back up in Belfast. I was worried this time would be the same.

I was also aware that on my return home I may experience some reverse culture shocks. After having dinner at almost 9pm every night like the Spanish, would I hate having dinner at 6pm again? How would I cope with cafes and shops closing at 5pm, the time that they reopen after siesta in Spain? These were all thoughts that crossed my mind. They only seem like small differences, ones that probably wouldn’t matter to anyone else but the easy going way of Spanish life was one thing that I really enjoyed during my time in Alicante.

To make things worse, everyone around me was telling me that moving back in with your parents after living alone is ‘The Worst Thing Ever.’ However, after a year of living on my own in a foreign country with what was initially a stark language barrier and minimal money, I can successfully say that there are definitely worse things that can happen to you than moving back in with your parents. For example, that time I had to explain my suspected thrush to a male Spanish pharmacist through mime (if you don’t know what I’m referring to, check out this blog post).

Expectedly, since returning home, I have really and truly reverted back to my childhood self. I had pre-empted that this might happen when I was still living in Alicante, but I promised myself that I would do whatever I could to maintain my independence and continue on with the good habits that I had built. Alas, despite my good intentions, the minute my feet touched Irish soil, I was a child again. Sort of like a warped version of Oisín and Niamh in Tír na nÓg. That mature and measured teacher who could stay calm in a classroom full of hyper children is long gone. The worst version of myself has replaced her. Now, I hold my own in a bickering match with my sisters about who borrowed what from whose wardrobe. And shopping frugally for my groceries at the cheapest supermarket? Not anymore. Whatever I need I can usually find at the bottom of the grocery bag upon my parents return from their own frugal shop at the cheapest supermarket. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree I suppose.

It’s fair to say that in some ways, being home has brought out the laziest version of myself, however, I do keep myself occupied with my part-time waitressing job, visiting my granny and trying out new recipes that I found on Tiktok. Being home has actually been so a welcome break and I am so grateful that I am lucky enough to be able to return home whenever I need.

After being away for a year, I’m able to see things through a more objective lens. I never really appreciated all the green spaces or nature that surrounds my hometown. I took them as a given, but now I can see how beautiful these spaces actually are and how lucky we are to have them. Living in a small town where everyone knows each other can be both a blessing and a curse, but this week a customer came into my work who knew my grandad, and for a brief moment, I was able to reminisce about how great he was with someone who actually knew him. Last week when my cousin and I had spent all of our money in the bar and had to walk home in the pitch black, a taxi driver I knew brought us home for free so that we would get home safe and the week before that, when I had gone grocery shopping with my dad, I met an old colleague who gave me a big hug across the till. These things would never happen to me anywhere else and there is something lovely about living in a town where everyone knows everyone.

I am trying to soak up every little bit of my life at home because I know that I won’t be living here for much longer. I appreciate every conversation I have with my granny, every dinner my mum makes me, every walk with my dog and every outing with my friends. I try not to think too much about how I will be leaving soon and have to start all over again in a new country. At this stage, I know the drill. I lived in Budapest and in Alicante, but no matter how many times you leave, I don’t think it gets any easier. Swallowing your tears and trying to remain stoic as you say goodbye to your family is as impossible every single time. Watching your dog look at you through the window as you drive away is as just heart breaking every single time and that last hug from your mum right before you leave? It is just as stomach wrenching- every single time.

I try to just accept this as something that is difficult for everyone, not just for me. I’m not the first person to move abroad and I won’t be the last. I try to think about the reasons behind why I’m moving, what I would do if I stayed and if doing those things would be what I really wanted. I often come to the conclusion that if I want to achieve my goals, I have no choice but to leave and strangely, I find comfort in this. By the time I’ve disembarked and I'm into my new apartment, things are already easier and I feel excited about what is to come. Something that is fixed at the forefront of my mind is the saying, ‘This too shall pass.’ In difficult moments, I think of it and feel comforted that the hardship won’t last forever and that things will get easier at some point, and in happier times I use this quote as a reminder to appreciate and be thankful for whatever it is that has made me happy, because everything is temporary, good or bad.