when you move from california to england
written on the bus, on the day of my three year anniversary of living in london
There are a lot of things you do not think about when you are preparing to move to another country. On the days before I moved from California to England, my mind was completely consumed by how many pairs of jeans and random hoodies I could fit into my suitcase and how early I needed to be at the airport and stocking up on the maximum amount of prescription refills that my pharmacy would allow and what snacks I should pack for the airplane and whether or not I needed to bring things like a curling iron or hiking shoes and what movies and albums I should download and how to get to my Airbnb once I was there and what the Covid restrictions were going to be like and if I was going to get along with my flatmate and how we were going to move into an unfurnished apartment with no bills, no phone plan, and no bank accounts set up. The unknown that comes with moving to a new place — a new continent, even — consuming each and every ounce of my being; there were a lot of things I did not think about when I moved to London.
I did not realize that waking up in my childhood bedroom on the morning I moved to London would be the very last time I would be waking up in that room, with that room being my room. I did not realize that from that point forward, my personal space would soon become a guest room embracing the skeleton of my presence; clothes and books and posters I left behind, pink and white speckled sheets only used by visitors, boxes of memories tucked away in the closet and under the bed. I did not realize that my dog, Achilles would peek his head through the door the next morning, expecting me to be there to cuddle with him, and I would no longer wake up to his perked up ear and curled up body weighing against my own. I did not realize that, because I was moving for the purpose of school, I would end up finding a job after graduating and remaining in England indefinitely, commencing my adult life with a set amount of calendar days in which I could return home to see my family. I did not realize that the walk I went on with my parents the night before I moved would be the last time where I could go downstairs at 5PM and stroll around the block with my mom and dad and our dogs, the pinks and oranges of a California sunset painted across the sky as we discussed whatever was on our minds that day, or what we wanted to have for dinner, or if we wanted to get gelato down the street for the third time that week (which, yes, we did). I did not realize that saying goodnight to them every night, my dad fast asleep, my mom eating a bowl of popcorn, an Achilles in-between, would come to a pause before I turned 24 years old, and the next time we all live together might not be for a very long time from now in very different circumstances. I did not realize that there would eventually come a day where my brothers would move out of the house, too, and when I go home there is a chance I will not see them every day that I am there; a house of 7 reduced to a house of 4. I did not realize that my mom was crying when she said “bye” to me at the airport, waving from behind the security entrance until we were tiny dots in each others fields of vision, because she had already realized all of this and more. She could no longer come up to my bedroom and sit on my chair and talk to me as I watched my YouTube videos or read my books or tried to sleep. She could no longer text me to bring her a bowl of popcorn at 11PM where I would sometimes sneak in some M&Ms or the chocolate covered pretzels from Trader Joes. She could no longer bring me along on her errands to the post office or to the Sunday market or to my dad’s workplace to drop off some papers. She could no longer have a daughter to confide in on long car rides or weekend hikes. She could no longer hold onto my arm when we walked around the block, just like my Lola does.
There is a lot that my mom realized when I moved from California to England, that I failed to realize until I moved from California to England.
Last Christmas, I stayed in London for the holiday break. I had already gone home in the spring and the summer, and so I figured I would try something new and experience Christmas in London. It seems romantic — the holiday lights sparkling across every borough, the markets and the smell of roasted chestnuts and evergreen and pine, the decorations scaling outside of Fortnum and Mason, picking out a Christmas tree and hobbling down the high street, and wrapping gifts for your flatmates in brown paper and pink ribbons and silver stickers — it all feels and seems and smells romantic up until you wake up on Christmas morning and realize that you are, in fact, staying in London for Christmas. On Christmas morning, I woke up and cried to my partner, because I realized it was my first Christmas in my 25 years of life without being surrounded by my family or the proximity of my friends and I missed them and I became frustrated with myself for intentionally choosing to stay in London, in a living situation I was not entirely fond of, cold and broke and far away from everyone in my life that I love so much. I tried my best to put on a smile and a cable knit sweater and enjoy Christmas with my partner and his family — who are some of the kindest and most caring people I know — and I cried when his mom gave me presents and a card that said that I am not alone. She does not know that I could not read the card in front of her because when I opened it and read the words “you are not alone” the waterworks were underway, and as I type this, I am starting to tear up again.
When I moved from California to England, I knew that I was placing myself further away from those I am closest to, but I did not realize the severity of certain moments I would miss, like when my cousin got married to her husband in Mexico, or when my other cousin had her baby boy in Hawai’i, or my great grandma’s 96th birthday, which I joined from my bed, on Zoom, and her 97th birthday which is a month away from today. I did not realize that, two days before I left to move to London, when I got tattoos with one of my best friends, it would be one of my last times speaking to her sweet, incredible, fashionable mother. I did not realize that two years later, I would see their family again on a trip to Los Angeles, and then five months after that, I would be waking up in my studio flat in London, reading the dreaded text none of us wanted to receive, and once again burrowing my head into my partner’s arms and crying until my eyes could not produce any more tears because I would not be able to attend a funeral and support my friend through the toughest time of her life. All I wanted to do was fly to California and hug my three best friends. I did not realize that the same month, I would get laid off from my job, and then my own father would get diagnosed with skin cancer, and in that moment I could not help but feel selfish for having moved so far away.
When I moved from California to England, I did not realize the logistical complexities that come with being in a relationship with someone from another country. I should have thought about this, because my mom is from the Philippines and my dad is from the Netherlands, but I did not, and I did not realize that for the rest of our lives, Nielsan and I will forever find ourselves stuck between spaces, one of us a £700 flight away from home, the other a short commute, and that it only gets more confusing and conflicting when a wedding and kids are brought into the discussion. When I see a grandma, a mom, and her child, I think about how either my mom or Nielsan’s mom will not have the equal opportunity to share the every day moments that come with being a grandmother, depending on where we end up in the world. I did not realize that I would become attached to a country because of a person, that our parents and siblings might not get the chance to meet face to face until it is at a ceremony, and that I somehow need to find a way to stay in London when my visa expires in six months, because otherwise, I will not know what to do.
When I moved to London, I did not realize that England, is in fact, different from America. I know this sounds very American of me, but I did not realize that there is black mold, there is hard water, and there is no air conditioning. I did not realize that my clothes would get crunchy from being air dried and my hair would exist in a permanent state of frizz and that there is no choice but to purchase a dehumidifier otherwise the mold will spread and your clothes will not dry and you will develop a cough and if you tell your landlord about it they will most likely paint it white or recommend that you clean it yourself. I did not realize that renting as an American in London is expensive and confusing, and getting a job as a non-U.K. citizen in London is nearly impossible, and much of the jobs in my field pay just enough to get by with no savings.
However;
When I moved to London, I did not realize that maybe I do like to raise my hand and participate in class and that I would somehow write a dissertation in the span of four months, and that I would get a Master’s degree and successfully find not one, but two careers in the music industry. I did not realize that I would end up working for record labels and media companies I have always dreamt of working for, and how the reason I was able to accomplish it all is because I made it happen for myself. I did not realize that I would gain the confidence to pitch myself to my dream blog or produce photo shoots and magazines with some of my favorite artists, or chase months-late invoices or negotiate a salary or speak up when I am being asked to do things that I did not agree to do. I did not realize that I would connect with creative individuals from all across the globe, and how inspired I would feel every day, with creativity existing in all corners of my life.
When I moved to London, I did not realize just how much I would grow from the experience of moving from one country to another, in every way shape and form that one could possibly grow. How I would figure it all out, whether applying for a visa, a bank account, or a flat to rent, and how maybe I am a lot more self-sufficient than I thought I was, and that whatever the “thing”, I managed to get through it. I did not realize that I would get over the person I thought I would never get over or that I even had the capability and the confidence to go on a bunch of first and last dates. I did not realize that I would eventually learn to enjoy and embrace my independence and find my sense of personal style and that, in the time I would decide to stop looking for love, love would find me.
When I moved to London, I did not realize how utterly confusing adult friendships can be. I did not realize that I would endure not one, or two, but three friendship breakups in the course of a year, and that I would have to have multiple uncomfortable conversations and confrontations if I wanted to reach my fullest potential. I did not realize that a friendship breakup is not the end of the world though in the moment it seems like it is, and that often times you will make it out on the other end feeling light as ever, and your future self will thank you every day for it. I did not realize just how drastically the quality of your life can shift when you place your time and energy into the people and things that inspire and uplift you most. I did not realize that friendships are supposed to be easy, and thank goodness I know that now.
When I moved to London, I did not realize how much I would treasure my friendships back in America. I did not realize that we would find our special and sometimes silly ways to keep in touch and maintain our years — some, decades — long relationships with one another, whether through Facetime calls or monthly “I MISS YOU” texts or sending our NYT games scores to one another in the morning, or our penpalling and postcards, or sending a song or a meme or a photo saying, “This reminded me of you,” always thinking of one another and finding excuses to keep the conversation going, despite being oceans apart. I did not realize that I am so lucky to have people in my life who are willing to travel overseas to see me, and also how appreciative I am to have re-connected with old friends who have found themselves in my neck of the woods.
When I moved to London, I did not realize that there were other people, like me, moving to London, who would soon become “mates” whose presence I deeply cherish. I did not realize that in a place like London you meet people from all around the world, and some of my closest friends here are from places like Virginia and Brazil and Luxembourg and England and Florida. In the last week, I both hosted and attended dinner parties, and all I could think about was how I moved to London knowing no one and now I am consistently finding myself sat at tables filled with love and joy and laughter, in my own house and in the house of my friends.
When I moved to London, I did not realize the level of attachment one could develop to a city. I did not realize that, despite the weather and the mold and the frizz, maybe I do like how people take advantage of the sun the moment it decides to come out of hiding, and how there is always something to see, whether an event or a concert or an exhibition, and how there are pieces of home here; like Rowen and Fraser and the friends travelling through London or the Californian bakery down the road or the Filipino pocket of Earl’s Court, the people and places and foods that take me back home, even just for a brief moment. And maybe I do like talking to strangers and maybe strangers do like talking to me, and no matter what part of the city I live in, I am able to form relationships and build a community around me. Maybe I do like the life I have built for myself and the home Nielsan and I have managed to create in under two months, one that is small but cozy and full of warmth. Maybe I do like the coffee catch ups with Tara and going to the flower market with India and finding new brunch spots with Maria and Esme and Julie and Adele and the lazy Sundays with Nielsan and Juno. And maybe I do like being in an office every day, surrounded by my coworkers who are hardly coworkers so much as they are close friends who see me more than anyone else, and maybe I do like the journey I have had over the last three years in London, and maybe the people from my life back home are happy for me, after all.
And maybe, part of growing older is realizing just how much you took for granted when you were younger, wishing you could go back in time and urge your past self to understand just how quickly life can and will pass you by. When you were 16 and withholding the details of your life from your mom, asking to stay home from school one day because you “felt sick” when in reality, you were crying all night because some people from your class were mean to you online, or when you were in college living with and around all of your best friends, without the knowledge that a time would come where you are on different sides of the globe instead of different rooms in a house; instead of running into Sophia in the kitchen at 10pm proofing her Trader Joe’s chocolate croissants or doing homework in your room while Maddie did her work on the other side of the wall or texting each other about what time we wanted to leave for Korean BBQ before huddling into Daria’s car, belting our hearts out to Conan Gray, unaware that one day we would be sending each other every detail of our lives on three different time zones — a photo of our coffee, selfies with our pets, 9 minute voice memos — unsure of when we’d all be in the same room again, let alone the same state. All of the hikes and the lockdown walks with your mom and your dad and your brothers and all of the morning cuddles with your dog. But you didn’t know any better, because how can you expect a moody teenager or a busy college student or a girl moving to another country to think about these things, when her mind is consumed by high school drama or a final paper or how many pairs of jeans and random hoodies she can fit into her suitcase?
On the day I was supposed to move to London three years ago, my flight got cancelled and I started to panic. After reading dozens of anxiety texts sent at 4:45AM, my dad came to my room. “Don’t worry about it, it will work out.” “I met your mom because my flight got cancelled.”
(p.s. mom and lola i know you’re reading this, i promise i’m okay lol haha <3)
also, hello! yes, i changed the name of this newsletter from ‘tatum’s thoughts’ to ‘letters from tum’ — i created this account without putting any real thought (no pun intended) behind the name thinking i’d just use it as a void to type my thoughts into, and while that is true, i’ve decided to change it to ‘letters from tum’ because tum is my nickname and i like writing letters and the aforementioned tattoo i got with my best friend before moving to london was, in fact, of a love letter : ) my first and favorite tattoo. one time a kid was like, “omg i can’t believe you have a tattoo of an email!” and it has never made me feel more senile at 26 but alas,,,
I’m crying 😭
possibly the most beautiful thing i’ve read that was written on a bus. thank you for sharing ♥️