My move to San Diego came at the end of a long, restless journey around the world.
I left London for Australia at 22, not long after my mom died. I’d spent the final year of her life as her full-time caregiver as she battled with cancer.
When she was gone, I needed to escape my hometown.
I’ll never forget my friend seeing me off, excitedly saying, “You’re so lucky to move to Australia!” I forced a smile because I felt the complete opposite. I was literally running away from my grief.
For the next 15 years, I moved countries every few years, filling my life with adventure while trying to find purpose. Distraction is powerful, and it worked to some degree.
Melbourne came first, then Los Angeles, back to Sydney, and eventually Dubai in the Middle East. I chased my dream of becoming an actor, built a journalism career, and went on overland camping trips through India and Africa.
Deep down, though, I knew I was seeking a “big life” to avoid the sadness of losing my mom.
Building bonds far from home
Wherever I lived as an expat, I formed close friendships with local women — apart from Dubai, where friendships with Emirati women were either discouraged or impossible.
Often, my closest friends were the women I lived with. Some of my roommates had family nearby and folded me into their lives. I spent Christmases with them and found comfort in borrowed families.
None of them were British, and I never sought that out. As a result, some of my dearest friends are now scattered across the globe.
Motherhood changed everything
I met my husband during a vacation to his native South Africa, and we bonded over our shared experiences of travel and adventure.
However, when we moved to San Diego with our baby daughter in 2009, everything — including, apparently, me — changed.
Suddenly, the unknown scared me. Adventure was replaced by Target and Trader Joe’s runs, and surviving sleep deprivation.
I joined local moms’ groups but felt out of sync. The language was different — “dummy” became “pacifier,” “pram” became “stroller” — but the deeper disconnect came from conversations I couldn’t join. Many women had grandparents nearby who helped with childcare or stepped in on weekends. I had no one, and constantly felt like an outsider.
It was hard to tell whether we had anything in common beyond motherhood, and I often wondered whether people assumed I’d eventually move back to England.
Luckily, I found a nearby British mom’s group. One friendship led to another, and soon I discovered a whole network of us in San Diego.
It felt comforting: the shared humor, the homesickness, the feeling of being outsiders together. The kinship was powerful, but it also marked a shift in me that I didn’t like.
The expat bubble I didn’t recognize
At some point, I noticed I’d become someone I didn’t recognize. I often joked that I only wanted English friends — and I meant it. It turned into a casual “them and us” mentality, even though we all felt lucky to live in California.
For someone who had moved country so many times and embraced all the challenges that come with it, I became cocooned in an expat bubble of my own making.
It felt wrong — embarrassing, even — to live in a country while avoiding the people from here. I worried that this smaller, more fearful version of myself was permanent.
Turning 50, and opening up again
Then I hit my 50s, and things changed again.
Because I had children in my early 40s, most of my English friends were about a decade younger than me, and they couldn’t relate to my new midlife woes. Mentioning HRT over dinner was met with silence and a sympathetic smile. I found myself prefacing everything with, “Well, because I’m older…”
Around that time, I joined my neighborhood book club, which was made up entirely of American women in their late 40s, 50s, and 60s. They were funny, warm, and deeply interesting. The group included women from all walks of life, from a nanny to a scientist.
After discussing the book each month, conversations quickly turned personal. We bonded over menopause, parenting teenagers, and aging parents. These women became my people.
Finding a sense of belonging
I still value my English friends in San Diego, but my American friendships have instilled in me a sense of belonging.
They laugh at my English-isms, which I love, but I’ve learned that belonging isn’t about shared accents or passports. It’s about shared seasons of life.
While I would still move home to be near my extended family, my husband doesn’t want to, and our children are in the education system here now. This season isn’t changing any time soon, and I’m finally happy about that.
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