5,682 KM Away from Home

Dear Mustangs,

I am writing from Leeds, England, 5,682 km away. It only took two years of planning, two cancellations due to Covid, one cancelled sublet, two cancelled flights, nine pages of special permission forms, a flight, a subway, a train, and a taxi to get here. 

When I first arrived, I bawled my eyes out like a little baby. I missed my boyfriend. I missed my family. I missed my friends. All I wanted was for my mom to tell me everything is going to be okay (and not through a FaceTime call). They say leaving is the hardest part, but not for me. I had built up all of these ideas in my head, thinking that I was a strong, independent person who was ready to take on the world. But, when I got here, all I could think was: 

“Why did I think I could do this?”

“Why did I leave all the people I love behind?” 

“What was I thinking??”

The problem with being 5,682 km away is that you can’t just go home. No one can hop on a flight and tell you everything is going to be okay within the hour, or even the night. So, I had my first panic attack. The walls around me closed in, suffocating my body and my chest. It felt like there were 100-pound weights tied around my lungs as I tried to breathe. I was jet-lagged, food-deprived, hungry, and thirsty, but leaving my room felt like I’d be entering a lion’s den. I couldn’t open the door, even though my parched mouth was begging me to. With an empty stomach, I cried over FaceTime for hours, until I finally fell asleep on a wet pillowcase in an unfamiliar bed.

Today is my 13th day of being in Leeds, and I can officially and proudly say I feel at home. I have made friends from all over the world, and I have embraced and learned from cultures that are so different from my own. I have unleashed an outgoing and fun side of myself that I am looking forward to further exploring. Leaving is scary, but it’s meant to be. 

Leaving Western was hard, but not as hard as arriving in the UK. Leading up to my move-out date, I swear all I did was cry. The last day of classes swooped in, and I bawled my eyes out in the University College theatre when no one was around. I took my ritual path back home, passing the same familiar trees that beamed with green leaves on my first day of school. I packed up my room all on my own, locked the door, and said goodbye to my home away from home.

Being a fourth-year student is bittersweet. Events like Foco and Halloween used to be filled with an adrenaline rush that made you feel invincible whilst running around a residence building with your new best friends. COVID could have played a factor too, but that adrenaline was slowly fading. I found myself ready to move on from the events that used to excite me in my first year, but not yet ready to leave the place I call home, or to become an adult with a full-time job in who knows what field. 

I know with it being second semester, my fellow future grads will have to face leaving and arriving in a new place that isn’t London, Ontario. Whether it be a new apartment 5,682 km away or the childhood bedroom of your parent’s house, change is scary.

My advice is that, whether it be the leaving or the arriving that hurts the most, eventually, everything will be okay. It simply has to be.