Where is home? Expat’s most asked question

“Where is home” is a question I have been asked often during the past eight years I have lived in London. Other variations would include “Is London Home?”.

I don’t know how to answer this question, that is the truth. The words were stuck in my throat, and would hesitate. I didn’t know. It should be a fairly simple question, if you are to check the dictionary definition of home “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.”. Well, I was living permanently in London. My family was not there or anywhere else in the UK. I had lived all my life in Portugal, previous to moving away. Was the UK or Portugal home?

Funny enough, when I Googled the definition of home, I also found it as a “verb”: (of an animal) return by instinct to its territory after leaving it. I like this definition. Of animals following a basic survival instinct for safety, and returning to that place that for them is a synonym to that word. It’s safe. It is home.

As I became an expat, I began to realise that I felt like a foreigner in the country I was supposed to be able to call home, Portugal. But also I don’t really feel like the UK was home – English is not my native language, I will always stand out as a foreigner, as someone who doesn’t understand the jokes and the pop culture references. I am not saying I don’t feel safe in either location – it’s simply that I don’t feel I belong to either.

It is a strange feeling, and sometimes it can be alienating. You feel lonely, and you feel you are living in between places, not really in one place or the other. I wish I could truly say that my home is this planet, but then I think about the admin. There are borders, there are passports, and there are tax residencies. Bureaucracy dictates where home is for you. How sad that is!

I suppose this is something I started to reflect upon as I returned to Portugal, not really knowing when I’m moving back to the UK or even if I am. (more details here on my resignation post). Until the start of 2024, Portugal is the place where I’m about to be spending a lot more time. And whilst this could be a comforting thought, it just isn’t. The place where I grew up has become a layover, the place where I go to try to get some rest, the place where I stay when I no longer have my own ceiling, as is the case now.

It is definitely not the place where I feel like I belong. I suppose a huge part of that is because I’m ending up belonging nowhere and everywhere. I adapt like a chameleon to places and to situations. Often to my own expense, and perhaps that is why I have accepted my life will be a constant quest for places, for experiences, for people. Sure, the thought of settling down in one place one day, potentially owning my own little flat, with three cats, walls covered in bookshelves, art and artefacts from my travels… yes that is a warming and comforting thought. But will it ever happen? Not sure, as I’d have to choose a place, and right now, I can’t.

I suppose this is probably one of the biggest challenges few talked about when I moved abroad. The loneliness. Not the loneliness from being somewhere where you don’t have friends or family. The loneliness you feel for living in limbo, between belonging and non-belonging, between languages, currencies, between experiences. The loneliness that comes when you are surrounded by people who speak your language and yet it seems they can’t understand you and you can’t understand them. Not anymore, not ever.

Anyone else can relate to this? 🙂

Love, Nic