stuck between spaces
basically me realizing that having a full time job and a social life and living in an expensive city is actually really extremely hard
I always seem to find myself stuck between spaces. Between California and England, between my full time job, my freelance job, my creative outlets, and my social life (or lack thereof), between my bedroom full of packing tape and cardboard boxes and the cute little flat I will get the keys to three weeks from typing this, between the things I want to do and the things I have to do, sitting somewhere in the middle of a “yes” and a “no,” like an hourglass that never seems to run out of sand, forever existing in a fuzzy state of permanent impermanence.
On Sunday, I was on the train and I overheard a (presumably) American student speaking to her (presumably) English classmate about how she moved from America to London to do a Master’s program with the intention of staying and starting a life in London afterwards. Because of recent laws which have affected myself and many other non-English folk, the U.K. government has made staying in the country merely impossible for a recent graduate to do, and now the person on the train is confused on what she is doing in London to begin with, if she isn’t guaranteed the tools to continue a life here. I was sitting directly across from her, wishing that I could just shout, “I’m on the same exact boat as you! My visa expires soon and I don’t know what I’m going to do! You are not alone! I understand!” In theory, I could have, but I 1. did not want them to know I had fully been eavesdropping on their conversation for 15 minutes despite having both Airpods in my ears and 2. did not know if saying something that essentially echoes her situation would only cause further distress.
It is moments like these where I am convinced that we all feel this way — stuck between two spaces, or places, whatever or wherever they may be — only some of us are better at hiding it. We sit in silence on the train, brushing shoulders and exchanging glances and bumping into one another as it suddenly comes to a halt, keeping quiet to the comfort of our devices and our books and our headphones and our anxieties without realizing that perhaps, we are a little more alike than we think we are. Inside, we’re all the same.
Last year, a lot of things happened in my life that some might deem as “big adult changes,” others (i.e. my therapist) might deem as a “resilience building experience” — I was living alone in a studio flat the size of a storage container (it was a shoebox but it was MY shoebox), I worked two freelance jobs which meant I could wake up whenever I wanted, and I could also be one of those people that wears sambas and gilets and gets a coffee at 1pm on a Monday on Broadway Market while other people wonder exactly what it is they do for work — despite them also being on Broadway Market at 1pm on a Monday — which ultimately led to an unhealthy work life balance and maxing out the amount of YouTube video essays and documentaries one could possibly consume over the course of the workday, and choosing to solve my problems by breaking my lease to apply for a new one with three people — three boys, including my partner — as well as a full time big girl job in a full time big girl office.
After not viewing the new flat which resides far outside the parameters of the community I had spent the last two years building in my little pocket of East London and hesitantly signing some papers, our offer was accepted, and shortly after, I wound up receiving and accepting the big girl job offer. In the moment, I knew that these contracts I was willingly singing myself into would fundamentally affect the course of my days and my routines (again, or lack thereof), but I craved the structure that living with others and having an office job would offer. The idea of freelancing full time as a “creative” sounds nice until you are chasing multiple HR departments to process your invoices that are five months overdue, and the only person you speak to the entire day is the barista serving you a £3.80 iced oat latte, and because you don’t clock in, you don’t clock out. You never seem to stop working, especially because your job is to write and make things for other people and your main hobby is to write and make things for yourself, and your dining table is also your desk, and you don’t receive any benefits or perks, nor do you get invited to Christmas parties where you get to wear fun knit sweaters and buy someone a £10 Secret Santa gift, and suddenly it is July and you are on a remote Greek island relaxing for what feels like the first time ever, and you sail and fly and train and bus home and hop on your weekly job call only to get laid off and then you hop on another call and find out one of your parents has skin cancer so ultimately you decide to 1. sign a lease with three boys in the midst of realizing that you like living alone and probably have some sort of undiagnosed cleaning compulsion and 2. apply for a full time job an hour and a half away from the flat you just signed a lease for.
I asked the universe for structure, and I fear bringing structure into my life has only caused further distress. Is this what the shock of the “real world” feels like? It has been nearly ten months since the move and the job and I remain stuck, only these days I get less sleep and have a caffeine dependency. I desperately need to go back to Greece because I have not felt peace since.
Don’t get me wrong, having a full time job — in an office — has brought great little joys in my day to day life that I craved while freelancing. My role is unique and cool and I am eternally grateful to have wound up in the position that I am in. I love having coworkers to yap with, there are two lovely chefs, Maf and Nancy, who cook the most incredible lunches, and I am now on free-coffee terms with both of the coffee shops next door. I enjoy laughing with my new friends and working alongside inspiring and creative and talented people in a building that feels like the type of place Architectural Digest would make a video about. It’s not that, no — it’s everything before and afterwards that seems to be leaving me feeling like a shell of a human being. It’s the lack of time to do basic things, like my laundry, groceries, the dishes, or sending a text back, and the lack of energy to maintain my second job and my close relationships, and the lack of funds, and the worry that these changes in my life are slowly dimming the light I know I exists inside of me.
This week in particular, I have found myself dealing with the dilemma that most of my other friends in their mid-twenties seem to be experiencing, where I am struggling to find a healthy balance between quite literally everything to ever exist in my life. I was used to being a student, and then I was used to being a freelancer (which was essentially like being a student but you’re in charge of yourself and you get paid for it), and I am trying my very best to get used to being a Working Girl In A Big City (it doesn’t help that the Big City in question is expensive and the wages in said Big City don’t quite equate to Said Living Expenses [olive oil is now £10 and 10 strawberries that grow mold within 3 days costs £3.99] and also I am a foreigner so if I fail to sort out a new visa in 8 months time I will get deported.) Much like the girl on the train, I am worried but I also know that everything will be okay because everything has to be okay. I will move and I will work and I will find a way to stay in the U.K. (or I won’t and that’s okay too) and I will write and make zines and create and come back to myself eventually.
I always seem to find myself typing these posts while I am on my way to go somewhere. I started typing this yesterday; I was taking a bus, and a train, followed by — you guessed it — another bus to meet with my friend Tara. Six miles and a hour and a half later (welcome to London), we went to a cafe steps away from the flat I am moving to, and split two slices of cake — pistachio and lemon and blueberry — and talked about life and people watched outside the window. Then we whipped out our journals and coloured pencils and binders of Korean stickers that we paid $20 in shipping fees for and filled our blank pages with whatever seemed to be speaking to us in that moment. For Tara, it was the things she likes right now, and for me, it was a collage inspired by my phone case. Tara is one of those friends that you hang out with, and you leave feeling inspired and grateful to have had the mere chance of crossing paths with one another. I think this is the third post I have mentioned her in and it is for a good reason.
The night before seeing Tara, I decided to Facetime my mom at 11:30 PM and to my surprise, my Lola answered the call. I thought she was in the Philippines, but apparently she was at “Traders Joe” with my mom. My Lola is perhaps the cutest person in my life and every life and I think if you met her, you would have no choice but to think so, too. Even through a phone screen, her contagious energy momentarily took me out of the rut I have been struggling to escape this week. In the middle of speaking to her, she said “Oh my gooosh sweetie you are so pretty and Nelson [her name for Nielsan] is soooo cute.” I am currently on my way to see some of my friends I met in my Master’s program - Adele, Julie, and Esme. In about ten bus stops, we will be sipping our iced lattes with oat milk and vanilla syrup and eating brunch and hearing about Julie’s trip to Tokyo and Adele’s nightmare of a haircut experience and Esme’s half marathon and my upcoming move.
Sometimes, all you need is a cup of coffee and a conversation with a friend. Or a midnight phone call with your Lola and your mom. Or writing it out in your notes app as you sit on the train, temporarily in motion, between two spaces. Maybe, you are not stuck after all.
I got this as a Substack curated rec in my email and it couldn't have found its way into my life at a more perfect time. This is a sentiment I'm very familiar with lately. Thank you for writing!