Some Distances Can't Be Measured

There are moments when living abroad feels exactly the way I imagined it would.

The quiet mornings. The little cafés I now call familiar. The freedom of building a life somewhere that once felt impossibly far away. And then there are the moments no one really prepares you for.

The birthday dinners you only see in photos. The babies who seem to grow up between FaceTime calls. The weddings, the celebrations, the ordinary weekends where everyone else is together while you're watching from another country, another time zone.

I've realised that being the friend who moved away comes with a strange kind of grief. Not because you've been forgotten. But because life keeps moving, whether you're there or not.

When I first moved, I told myself that technology would make it easier.

"We can text. We can call. We can FaceTime whenever we want."

And those things matter. They really do.

But they aren't the same as sitting across the table from someone you've known for years and they sure as hell aren't the same as the conversations that happen after everyone has stopped talking.

I've always been someone who wanted to show up.

For birthdays.

For difficult days.

For exciting news.

For the moments that don't make it onto Instagram.

Sometimes I still struggle with knowing that I can't always be that person anymore.

For a long time, I never really understood how much comfort there was in simply knowing my family was close. Even if I didn't see my parents every day, they were there. If something happened, I could get in the car or hop on a cheap flight. If I needed home, it was only a 3-hour drive or a 1-hour flight away.

Now, home requires multiple flights.

Planning.

Saving.

Waiting.

It's a different kind of closeness...one that asks more of you. The funny thing is, if you asked me whether I'd do it all again, my answer would still be yes.

Without hesitation.

Because this life has given me things I never would have found if I'd stayed where I was comfortable. It's given me another language.

Another culture.

A slower rhythm.

A marriage that's grown through building a home together from scratch. A version of myself I don't think I would have met otherwise.

But two things can be true at once. You can love the life you've chosen...and still miss the one you've left behind.

I've stopped thinking that those feelings cancel each other out and they don't mean I've made the wrong decision. They just mean that every beautiful life asks us to give something up.

And maybe that's what growing up really is.

There are only different versions of a good life. Some are living close to the people who raised us. Others ask us to build something new, knowing we'll sometimes ache for what we left behind.

I'm still learning how to hold both.

To be fully here without feeling guilty for missing being there. To celebrate the life I'm creating, while making room for the people and places that will always feel like home.

Because I don't think love is measured by distance. But sometimes...distance reminds you just how much you love.