Replanting Lives: What I Learnt in a Year Since Moving to the Other Side of the World

Exactly a year ago today I was watching our life being packed up in 38 boxes, all stacked up by the door of our airy Bucharest apartment, waiting to be taken by truck to a ship that would bring them on a 5 month journey to the other end of the world. The rest of our life, the absolute essentials, were packed into 3 suitcases - half of which were books we couldn’t part with, beloved stuffed toys our three year old considered her very best friends and the rest were clothes and the kind of trinkets that people hang on to because they believe objects have soul and we can’t think of other ways to carry around precious memories that would otherwise start fading away into oblivion, lost in the hustle and bustle of life.

I looked around at what had been, for the past 3 years, our home. It seemed empty and a bit sad, yet still sweetly familiar. We had moved into that apartment when I was expecting our daughter and it was the place that had seen the two of us become a family. I had spent my evenings on the beautiful flower filled terrace singing to my unborn baby, and then countless nights pacing those rooms trying to soothe tummy aches and buddying teeth. I knew every nook and corner of that space. I knew the feel of the kitchen smelling of fresh coffee brewed in the morning, waiting for me; knew every colourful character in the forest a good friend had lovingly painted all around my daughter’s room; knew the quiet of the work space where I spent so many evenings writing, learning and reflecting after the house had gone to sleep. I knew the joy of walking the 5 minutes to our shared workshop space, right on the next street, a space where Viorel’s love of cooking and my love of ever growing human beings had joined and played together in countless learning experiences that were as memorable for us as they were for the people attending.

I knew very well a life I had built over 17 years of living in hectic Bucharest, the city where I had come to study and ended up spending my adulthood; the city where I had loved, lost, grown, discovered who I wanted to be, built a career that had turned into a life vocation, worked with thousands of people over more than a decade and been enriched in myriad ways. Yet it was a city which, strangely enough, had never completely felt like home to me. There had always been a curiosity nagging at me, a longing for the wide world. There had always been a call to travel - and travel I had! Yet it didn’t seem enough. Every time I went away I discovered new horizons, new things to learn, new energies I longed to explore more deeply than one can do in a short trip. And every time I came back home I wondered what “home” actually meant. I kept feeling that “home” to me was less about a place and more about the people I loved and people I met through my work, learnt from and was inspired by.

I thought of myself as a citizen of the world. And I longed to discover who I’d be in a completely different place. I also longed to take the work I had started and give it space to grow further, to see what it might become. I longed for mentors I was missing, for opportunities of deepening my learning and my work that didn’t seem to exist around me. I also wondered who my girl might be, should she have the chance to grow up rooted not in one, but in two different worlds, with all the perspectives and diversity of language, thought and understanding that could bring.

So, with a deep awareness of all I knew, a clear intention for what I wanted to learn and with a loving partner who shared my thirst for growing and exploring, I did what Alice in Wonderland thought she had done by falling through the rabbit hole. I moved to Australia.

“I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downwards! The antipathies, I think—" (she was rather glad there was no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) "—but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand? Or Australia?” 
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland: The Complete Collection

We arrived on the beautiful Sunshine Coast at the beginning of Aussie winter. The weather was perfect. The ocean was perfect. The little house we were lucky to find less than two weeks after we arrived was perfect. We had a perfect school minutes away, waiting to welcome our child. But we were imperfect human beings who don’t know how to deal with perfection.

So we fell down a wormhole of anxiety - anxiety about turning our brand new house into a home, anxiety about my stepping into an academic space of research that was completely unfamiliar, anxiety about our previously peaceful, joyful and precocious daughter’s tantrums, which seemed to erupt like a volcano, without warning, sparked by the most minute of discomforts and, most of all, anxiety about not knowing how to rebuild the resemblance of stability and safety we had come to take for granted in our previous lives.

We squabbled about the furniture to buy and sometimes felt the end of our relationship was only one Ikea cupboard away. We squabbled about how to deal with the kid’s tantrums - veering between patiently explaining and setting limits for the hundredth time and losing any resemblance of calm and peace and then back again to apologising for losing it and explaining yet once more. We squabbled about the future - how to work and manage the family? How to build a business from scratch in a place where nobody knows you? How to stay true to ourselves and the work we both loved and yet make sure we were actually making a living?

Underneath the outer turmoil there was the inner one. I found that all my life-long amateurish nerdiness was of little use when faced with the seemingly overwhelming task of doing serious research. For the first time in my adult life I was reading and not understanding what I was reading. There were countless moments when I felt genuinely stuck and overwhelmed, to the point where I seriously doubted my intellectual capacities. While I was busy reading and turning in papers, racing for a deadline that would determine if I was actually prepared to do a PhD, there was little space and time to do the work I loved, which I had done for more than a decade.

I suddenly missed the thrill of being in a workshop room with a group of leaders, watching their insights unfold. I missed the joy I’d get when a coaching client had a breakthrough moment. I missed the validation I had received from people whose understanding of themselves and others I’d been able to further through my work. I was shocked to discover how much of my self-confidence had actually stemmed from all the positive feedback I had gotten through the years. I had longed to do research but had dramatically underestimated how excruciatingly hard it would be to give up something I had been really good at and recognised for to do something I had to learn from scratch, with all the mishaps and clumsiness that comes with new beginnings.

Despite spending the better part of a year preparing for this adventure, despite the countless conversations we had - both us, the adults, and then together with our child, despite our belief that we had done a lot of self-awareness work and we were starting on this journey with a deep understanding of ourselves, each-other and the motivations for leaving our comfortable lives behind - despite all of that, we were not prepared for the systemic shock our lives endured when we uprooted ourselves from a space of knowing, safety, stable network into another where there was just one beautiful, wide, open field, waiting for us to build something on it.

In what has been both the hardest and most amazing year of my life, I have learnt a few precious things, some of which might be universal lessons every expat discovers and others might just be nuggets of wisdom the Universe had in store just for me. However they may be, here they are - we never know who might find a bit of inspiration or a bit of solace, if they are treading a similar lonely, unchartered path.

Your children are your most faithful mirrors and wisest teachers.

It took us some time to fully untangle the mystery of our daughter’s tantrums. Some of the reasons were quickly obvious: she was grieving her old life, missing her school, her friends, the rest of our family. She was facing starting a new life, in a language she didn’t speak. She went to school every day and, from an exceptionally verbal kid, suddenly found herself reduced to silence, not being able to express her wants and thoughts, not being able to understand others. She suffered, was frustrated and often overwhelmed by emotions bigger than her, so complex it was hard for her to make sense of them.

But there was more to it. She was sensing our anxiety, our unbalance. As calm as we tried to be in her presence, we couldn’t trick her. She felt mom and dad were not her usual pillars of stability and felt like pushing those boundaries to see if they would hold. And when they didn’t, when we reacted and revealed our frazzled state to her, she felt unsafe and she pushed some more. It took for us to become more conscious of how insecure we felt, to give up the pretence of control and accept our vulnerability, to really and genuinely calm down and own our struggle, to openly admit to her that we were all having a hard time and that was ok - for her to be able to do the same. And once she did, she led the way in dealing with challenges.

She learnt English in just a couple of months, because she was convinced her brain was magical and, if she was patient enough, she’d just start to understand. And she did. Which then got me to remind myself that my brain was magical too and that got me to stick to my incomprehensible research papers until they made sense. She made new friends because she just reached out to people without fear of rejection, so we did the same (despite the fear) and discovered amazing new people who welcomed us with open arms. She broke her hand and just took it in her stride, sporting her cast with optimism and not complaining at all, carrying on with life and still wanting to do everything herself, without help, just like before- so we too started looking at our setbacks with more detachment and perspective and turned many of them into opportunities.

I learnt this year that adults can regress in times of stress and behave like immature children, but also that children can grow up fast and invite adults into a space of wisdom just by the very courage with which they jump into life and take it for what it is, always finding joy in the moment.

Your most loving relationships take the hardest work

I also learnt this year is that work on our relationships is never done. There is never enough listening, supporting, reflecting. There’s no such thing as a fully mature person - the wisest people can regress in times of extreme stress and when you’re at your worst you’re also likely blind to your immaturity. Fear brings out old toxic patterns you thought were long cleared and healed.

I also learnt that it takes but one conscious person at any given moment to completely turn around the outcome of a conversation. When one is left without resources the other one can take over and be the keeper of wisdom in the relationship. When one looses it, the other one can keep it together.

I learnt that kindness is the most precious commodity in a relationship. In the roughest of times kindness beats love because it allows for space, for patience, for honest conversation or for wise silence when needed. Love without kindness can be like a volcano exploding. Kindness brings temperance and clears the way for love at its best.

You can be mature, wise and strong and still crumble in a heap and that’s absolutely ok

One of my biggest lessons this year was around self-expectations. I learnt we all seem to have a favourite image of ourselves. My version was “I am a conscious human, working hard at living with my eyes open”. I took pride in my calm, balance, resilience and ability to see the bigger picture. I also thought I had healthy self-esteem and an unconditional positive regard for my value as a human being - I believed my sense of wellbeing didn’t depend on external achievement.

I had to lose every source of external validation to realise how feeble my core was. I had to lose any resemblance of calm and wisdom to realise how easily susceptible to fear I actually was. I then had to learn to forgive myself for not being able to be more and do more and to allow myself to love this insecure person I was just discovering and had no idea still existed inside of me. I had to remind myself, just like my daughter did, that there was magic within me and, if I gave myself enough time, I’d start to make sense of things again. And I did.

Most importantly, I learnt that wisdom and immaturity can coexist in the same person. So can hope and optimism co-exist with profound moments of hopelessness and meaninglessness. This year I came face to face with my inner paradoxes and, for the first time, didn’t try to solve them anymore. I learnt that a human can be many things and the shadow is always there, so it might just be wiser to acknowledge it and stay curious about what it has to teach you.

Whatever you do, keep your inner compass with you

One of my core beliefs is that having clarity over personal values gives one a sense of coherence and purposeful direction in life. For many years, I felt that my values and my sense of mission were the guiding compass that shaped all of my decisions and I am fortunate to share my life with a man who is also a huge supporter of value-based decisions. Never has this belief of ours been tested more strongly than last year.

There were countless decisions we had to make as a family where the easy way would have meant compromising some of our values. Work for a boss whose decisions cross your ethical boundaries? Take a job doing something you don’t like just for the safety it will bring? Take a shortcut and change a project you believe in just to get it approved faster by external stakeholders?

We found that, time and time again, we said no to a lot of things that would have made us feel incongruent with the values we believe in. We said no even when we didn’t have an immediate alternative, we said no even when that meant more insecurity in the short term, we said no to things that didn’t seem right or didn’t make us feel right. Through highs and lows, that inner compass held steady and we listened to it. And, incredibly, there was always a sense of peace from responding to that deep inner guidance and we always managed to create new opportunities that were more aligned with who we are and what we’d like to bring into the world.

I learnt that fear is the biggest enemy of your values’ compass and that, if you manage to hold on to that compass, despite the fear, it will always take you to the place where you need to be.

“Now” is never the end of the story, so be patient. Act and let go.

Finally, this year I learnt patience. Good things take time to grow. I learnt there is a fine balance between purposeful action and letting go. There is a time to push and a time to wait. And there is nobody to tell you the difference, so you need to still yourself, to create some inner space so you can listen and sense the right timing.

I remembered a wonderful piece of wisdom my grandmother used to share with me when she saw me upset: “after every storm comes sunshine and once in a while you might also get a rainbow”. This year reminded me that everything is impermanent - our struggles seem like they might last forever, but they never do. And even in-midst of struggle, there are countless moments of joy that we miss because we’re so focused on the hurting. There is that walk on the beach, there is that afternoon of games and of laugher, there is that one paper you got right, that friend who called just to see how you were, that random former client writing an email just to tell you that you are missed and filling your heart with gratitude.

Over this past year I got my PhD confirmation and started to feel like I could actually become a researcher after all. I found an amazing team of facilitators that invited me in their midst and made space for me to bring the insights of my research in the training room. Viorel found his own space and is sharing his creativity with people who like to play, like he does. Our little girl is growing roots in a new home, with friends, books, wild imagination rides and endless discoveries.

We are all still just as beautifully imperfect as we were before, albeit a little bit wiser. I still feel a citizen of the world, but I am much more keenly aware of the complexities of belonging, which seems to happen in a liminal space that is both physical and relational. I have learnt that it is ok to mourn lives we have left behind while still loving the lives we are building now. I learnt that roots take time to grow. I have also learnt the joys of creating new connections, of allowing new people to mirror you and show you parts of yourself you never knew. I learnt to listen more deeply to our shared humanity and honour our differences as things to be curious about rather than sources of conflict. Finally, I have learnt that sometimes it takes losing ourselves to find ourselves anew and that, when you reach that frightening no-man’s land of not knowing, instead of running away from it, perhaps you might try taking a first step and trust you will love the person you discover on the other side.