Liminality

 

It is only a week left before my big move. At least, that’s what it says on my countdown app. Yes — I am that kind of person.

I thought I’d be more excited. Or more scared. I am something, that’s for sure — but not sure what that thing is. I feel like ever since I got back from the UK, I’ve been swallowing things into my throat. I haven’t yet processed the fact that I left my home in Southampton. I couldn’t get used to my first home again — Turkey — which doesn’t always feel like home these days.

Because, “a man cannot step into the same river twice, because it is not the same river, and he is not the same man,” right? Neither I nor the country is the same, and this unfortunately creates adjustment problems.

Also, I’ve been doing all kinds of paperwork ever since I got back. I mean, where is all this coming from anyway? I said it before, and I’ll say it again — I definitely need a personal assistant for this kind of stuff.

Last night, I watched a movie called My Oxford Story and (shocking) the story takes place in Oxford. I thought I’d miss England while watching it. I didn’t. (Also shocking.)

I miss certain things that I left in the UK. My bike, for example. My sweet, sweet baby hasn’t been ridden in almost a month now. I don’t miss the tea, because that was one of the first things I packed in my suitcase. I miss people. My people. Luckily, I can still talk to them. But there are still feelings and moments I miss. I miss walking from my home to the Nest Coffee Shop. Archers Road. The Avenue. London Road. It’s silly, I know. But also not so silly.

And on top of everything, I’m supposed to pack soon. Well, joke’s on you — because I haven’t even unpacked properly. I feel like I have a mountain to climb. But at the same time — and I’m quoting one of my friends here — “The nerves are entirely understandable, but I cannot think of anyone better experienced to manage this move.”

I know he’s right. And I know I’m not the same Fatima from 7 years ago, when I was moving from Turkey to the UK for the first time. I’m not even nervous about the relatively long flights and layovers and all the messiness that comes with it. Because I know I’ll do just fine.

But I guess things moved too quickly, and I was also always on the move, doing stuff. Everything happened at once. I submitted my thesis. Passed my viva. Did corrections. Job applications. Rejections. Rejections. Packed my beautiful home. Said goodbye to the people I love. A few quick stops in Europe. (I know — very inconsiderate and unnecessary, but oh well.)

And then I got the offer.

Did you know I applied for this job at the airport? Like — an actual airport, waiting for my flight and everything. That was my way of passing the time. Of course, there was a prep process in advance — there’s no such thing as luck. But the actual application happened at the airport. God, I’ve done a whole lot of things at airports — this just got added to the list.

When I knew I was moving to the UK for the first time, I was doing research like crazy. About the country. About the culture. About the university. I even decided which student societies I’d join. Which coffee shops I’d go to. What kind of food I’d order.

But life works in a funny way. I ended up living my UK adventure in a completely different way.

So this time, even though I do want to prep more — wish lists, travel plans, personal and career goals — it’s not like before. I do have things in mind, here and there, but it’s not as structured.

Am I less excited? I don’t think so.
Did I grow into a boring adult? Mmmmh.

Either way, I’m sorta winging it at this point. Major things have been arranged. But there’s definitely more room for planning, which I’m not up for. I’m still mourning the UK and adapting to Turkey. My brain hasn’t caught up to this upcoming adventure.

Even though I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed and underwhelmed at the same time, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. And for sure, little Fatima would be super psyched about this — regardless of how I feel.