The first time I moved to another country by myself, I thought I could fit my entire life into one suitcase. After sobbing at the airport and begging the airport staff to forgive my bags being 22 pounds overweight, I learned my lesson.
I have spent the past 18 months lugging my whole life around in a few bags as I moved across three continents. I left a tiny high school where I had known the same friends for ten years to attend university in the center of London. I was 3,000 miles away from everyone I knew, in a city notoriously difficult to socialize in, without the safety net of going home every weekend that many others had. I didn’t know how to pack, I didn’t understand the buses, and I didn’t know how to meet people. So, for a while, I didn’t try to learn.
Instead of trying to build a new life, all I could think about was how much I missed my old one. I had internalized the idea that attending university forces you to drift away from your high school friends, and I did everything in my power to prevent this. I spent every day in my dorm, counting down the days till winter break. Whenever I felt a hint of longing for my home friends, I called them. It became a self–fulfilling prophecy: My constant belief that I had no life away from home prevented me from building one.
In the winter of 2024, I realized that my attempts to suppress my homesickness had left me without a home of my own in London. I was living in a city that so many people dream of visiting, and I had nothing to show for it. So, with a second chance in the new semester, I refused to keep living like this. I started saying yes to everything: coffee on The Strand with a stranger in my seminar, walking home with the girl who lived next to me instead of keeping my headphones on, and a spontaneous trip to Brighton. By the end of 2025, I had found my footing, along with several close friends and three new best friends–turned–flatmates. I spent my first three months of my second year getting attached to my new life, new flat, and new flatmates. Then, I got the dream opportunity to do it all over again by studying abroad at Penn. I took it, assuming I was immune to reliving my isolated first semester.
By this point, I had learned to get a baggage allowance of 100 pounds, which I was able to pack in one night. I used a meticulous spreadsheet that had been refined over the past year, and I had mastered the tube ride from the airport while carrying it all by myself. After being so practiced in the logistical processes, I thought my hypothesis was proven correct. I was certain that I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. I remembered that miserable winter and told my friends not to let me call them too often, lest I succumb to the self–destructive pitfalls of homesickness again.
Once I landed in Philadelphia, unpacked my room, and said goodbye to my mother, I felt the familiar loneliness setting in. I wasn’t leaving my room. I was texting my friends from home, both in Dubai and London, about how much I missed them. I walked up and down Locust Walk every day just to go to class, come home, and sleep. Breaking my patterns was more difficult than I expected.
But I soon realized I wouldn’t have the three months it took me to fix my issues last time. This opportunity was fleeting, and I couldn’t waste it. So many people I knew at Penn had traveled the same or longer distances than I had, so why did it feel like I was the only one stuck?
I thought back to all the chances London gave me that I passed up. Freshers’ socials, international student mixers, and a couple of society fairs that I tried to attend before giving up in 20 minutes. I tried to blame external factors—the city is too big to make friends, everyone already knows each other—but truthfully, it was because I expected other people to take on the responsibility of building my life for me. So, when Penn gave me a second chance at social connection, I gave it my best attempt. I went to the exchange student mixers, an ice hockey game, and even tried to immerse myself in the Super Bowl fever. This time, by leaving my comfort zone, I found myself ending the first few weeks with some good friendships and a strong social life in development. Just having places to go and people to meet on the weekend remarkably improved my life here.
It might seem obvious that buying in improves the experience; these social events only work if everyone makes an equal effort to socialize. However, in actually giving these opportunities the chance they needed, I realized that my half–hearted attempts at socialization were always designed to fail. Their existence ensured that I could say I “tried” before affirming my belief that I would never find friends better than the ones from home. The privilege of having friends worth missing comes with a heartbreaking question: What if no one else ever compares?
I once told my hometown friends that I wouldn’t mind living the rest of my university experience without friends in London, just biding my time until I can see them again. Obviously, they discouraged this, and I’m glad I didn’t continue on that trajectory, because I would have missed out on some of the best friends I would ever make. However, I caught myself thinking it again when I moved to Philadelphia this time, now with flatmates to miss as well.
Maybe I’m hard–wired to be nostalgic, and this urge will resurface during my next intercontinental move. However, I don’t think this has to be a bad thing, because I now have the tools to prevent it from consuming me. While leaving is hard, I have learned that it’s harder to live for months feeling stuck, lonely, and sorry for myself. I certainly know that the last 18 months of my life have taught me enough to make my next three months in Philly significantly better.
