21 years later...
When I boarded that plane to Australia in February 2005, I don’t think I truly understood what it meant to move to the other side of the world. I knew I was leaving England, my family, my friends, my job, and everything that had an ounce of familiarity about it. But at the time, it felt like an adventure – a monumental one.
I had what some may define, a crazy level of naïvety, and had decided to just ‘go for it.’ My thought was that I would give it two years and reevaluate life. After all, I had no idea who deeply the move would affect me, how it would shape me as a person. So, I got on that flight and walked out of Brisbane airport from the coolness of the plane into the heat of a Queensland summer. I started the rest of my life.
February 9th is what I call my Aussie-versary. The anniversary of my landing. Now, almost twenty-one years on, it’s time for that reevaluation and to share some of the good and bad parts of the big move.
The Early Glow
Within two weeks of living in Australia, I had decided it was right. It had ticked the relevant boxes. Work – tick. Leisure – tick. Family – tick. Weather – tick. Friends – tick. I had really done it. I’d packed up my life and emigrated. Was I really as brave as everyone told me I was?
Those first few months felt a bit like a dream. The sunlight seemed to stretch forever. I had landed in summer so was introduced to the scalding heat of the seatbelts and pavements (if you know, you know.) I took note that the people were friendly, and there was a sense of space that I had never felt before.
There was something wonderfully uncomplicated about the way Australians interacted. People called you “mate” at the checkout and “love” at the bakery. There wasn’t the same stiffness I’d grown up with in England. Conversations flowed easily, and laughter seemed to come more naturally. I remember thinking, this is exactly what I needed — a place where life felt less complicated, less burdened. Somewhere where I could reinvent myself without expectation.
I found joy in simple things — learning the slang, trying new foods, and discovering how weekends seemed sacred here. People took time for family and friends. The idea of “work to live” replaced “live to work.” Unless you’re a nurse of course and all bets are off. If there is a shift that needs covering, or someone doesn’t turn up, you can’t go home and leave the workplace without cover! If it’s a public holiday, work doesn’t stop.
The Distance
The distance — that almost mythical word when you live in England — became real. Australia isn’t just far away; it’s isolated. It’s one thing to say you’ve moved to the other side of the world — it’s another to live with certain aches, certain gaps in your life.
If I watched a television show and a character hugged a parent, I hated it. Mine were (at the time) 16,000km away. I couldn’t complain though. I had made my choice, but it still hurt. Missing birthdays and christmases with families were sad. I remember opening my Christmas presents on FaceTime with my mum, the first year we were here. Time zones made phone calls a military precision operation. Conversations happened in fragments. Unwelcome news came through phone calls and video screens.
Was I homesick? Yes. I loved my life but missed my parents and my close family. Nothing beats coffee and cake with family or shopping with mum. You never forget where you came from. Ironically, English family and friends suggest I sound more Australia and Aussie family and friends hear the British accent more.
Building a New Life
Australia offered me opportunities I might never have found in England. The lifestyle was calmer, the pace more humane. There was a sense of possibility — that you could start something from scratch and be taken seriously. I learned new ways to see the world, new ways to live. I learned to love barefoot summers, the scent of eucalyptus after rain, the kookaburras laughing in the trees and the sight of surfers enjoying the waves.
I also learned resilience. Moving abroad strips you bare in many ways. It takes you back to the bare bones of life and yourself. You have to build a new network, navigate bureaucracy, learn the quirks of a culture that looks similar on the surface but feels vastly different underneath.
Australians don’t stand on ceremony — which can be refreshing and confronting in equal measure. It took time to adjust to the blunt honesty, the casual swearing, the unspoken rule that nothing — not even the heat — is worth complaining about for long.
What I came to love most, though, was the sense of community. People offered help without waiting to be asked. When you live far from family, those gestures matter deeply. I found friendships that became as close as family — people who saw me through the highs and lows, who made me feel that “home” is not a single place, but a feeling you build with others.
The Weather and the Way of Life
The weather was a huge plus — until it wasn’t. Those endless summers that once seemed like heaven eventually taught me the meaning of exhaustion. Mid thirties-degree heat for a lot of the year, bushfire warnings, and insects that belong in documentaries about the Jurassic era were things my English sensibilities took a little time to accept. Now I feel like an old pro when I hear of another flood, storm, or cyclone.
I do miss the change of seasons – that’s never stopped in 21 years and never will. I miss the colours of autumn leaves, the cosiness of winter evenings, even the drizzle that people love to hate. I miss snow too. Christmas in the heat never quite made sense to me and still doesn’t. It never will. The first year I saw Santa in shorts, I think something inside me quietly rebelled.
Yet, despite the quirks, I fell in love with the rhythm of life here. There is a lightness to how Australians approach things — a lack of pretence. People care less about titles and more about whether you are decent company and bring some beer. That groundedness appealed to me deeply. It stripped away a lot of the unnecessary noise and pretentiousness that life in England sometimes carried.
The Emotional Geography
What I did not expect was how migration changes you internally. You start to belong to two places and yet also to neither. When I return to England, I feel both familiar and foreign. I slip back into old habits, old jokes, old streets — but I also see them with different eyes.
When I come back to Australia, I feel relief at the space, the light, the sense of ease — but also a faint dislocation. It is as though part of me is always in transit, living somewhere between two versions of home.
I have realised that home is less about geography and more about where your life has meaning. Australia gave me a new chapter, one that deepened my appreciation of where I came from and taught me gratitude for where I am.
I will let you into a secret. When I come back from an overseas holiday, I love to hear the pilot say, “And if you are disembarking here in Brisbane, welcome home,” or words to that effect. That always raises a smile. Australia is home for me.
Pluses and Minuses
The Biggest Plus
If I had to name the single biggest plus of moving here, it would be growth — personal, emotional, creative. Australia gave me room to breathe, and it gave me a courage I didn’t know I had.
It is where my writing truly found its home. There is something about this vast, sunlit country that invites reflection, that whispers, what will you make of this life?
I learned to listen to myself more closely here. To slow down. To see beauty in simplicity. The endless blue sky, the sound of kookaburras at dawn, the quiet moments ‘just sitting’ with a cup of coffee — they became my anchor points of life.
Plus: Space to Breathe
One of the first things that struck me was the space. Australia has an abundance of it — not just physical space, but emotional space too. Coming from Britain, where everything felt close, compact, and slightly hurried, chaotic in a way, Australia’s openness was intoxicating. The sky seemed bigger, the air somehow lighter. I remember those early days walking along beaches that stretched endlessly, with barely another person in sight. I could breathe here, both literally and figuratively.
Plus: The People
Australians have an incredible knack for humour and understatement. They can turn disaster into a punchline and tragedy into a barbecue story. There’s something deeply grounding about that. I quickly realised that when an Aussie says, “She’ll be right,” they don’t mean everything’s fine. They mean, “We’re about to be hit by a cyclone, but no point worrying about it yet.”
The friendliness is disarming, too. Back home, you can live next door to someone for a decade and only exchange polite nods. In Australia, my neighbours were on my doorstep within hours of moving in, offering homemade lamingtons and advice about the bin schedule. By the end of the week, I had been invited to a barbecue, a birthday party, and to “come round for a beer anytime.”
Plus: A New Way of Living
Australia has a glorious knack for slowing you down — in an enjoyable way. Life here feels more balanced, less frantic. People finish work and go outside. Beaches are treated like public rights, not rare luxuries. The idea of spending the weekend in nature isn’t a chore; it is just what people do.
I learned to appreciate that rhythm. I started walking more, breathing deeper, and saying yes to things I would have overthought before. There is something about the endless horizon that makes you believe you can start over, no matter your age or history.
And then there is the food. My first Australian breakfast nearly made me emotional — avocado, feta, poached eggs, all beautifully plated and served with a smile. In Britain, breakfast was often beige and came in a tin. Australia turned it into art. I almost became one of those people who take photos of their smashed avo before eating it, and I regret nothing.
Plus: Sunshine, Glorious Sunshine
The weather. After a lifetime of grey skies, drizzle, and people saying, “nice day, isn’t it?” when it clearly wasn’t, I thought I had found heaven. My first Australian summer felt like stepping into a world turned up to full brightness. There was an entire sky I had never seen before — bold, cloudless, and blue enough to make your eyes water.
Of course, no one warned me about the intensity of the sun. Australian sunshine doesn’t politely warm you — it attacks. It stalks you, waits for you to forget your SPF 50, and then strikes vigorously. Within a week I learned two lessons: the hole in the ozone layer is real, and aloe vera should be bought in bulk. Still, I will take an Australian sunburn over a British frostbite any day.
Plus: The Scenery
It’s impossible to stay grumpy in a country this beautiful. From beaches that look photoshopped to forests that hum with life, Australia is a daily reminder that nature still knows how to show off.
When I first saw kangaroos hopping casually across a front garden (not mine I will add), I laughed out loud. In any other country, that would make front-page news. Here, it is an average day. The scale of the landscape changes your perspective. You feel smaller, in a good way — like part of something vast and untamed.
Driving through the outback was one of those experiences that redefined the word “remote.” There’s a kind of quiet you cannot find anywhere else — a silence so deep it feels alive. You begin to understand why people come here searching for peace, and why some never leave.
Plus: The Sense of Adventure
Even after all these years, there is still a part of me that feels like an explorer. Australia remains a country of wide spaces and wilder possibilities. You can drive for hours and still find somewhere you have never been — a hidden beach, a mountain trail, a tiny country town where the bakery is the social hub.
There is a freedom in that. A sense that life can still surprise you. I have found beauty in unexpected places and community in the unlikeliest of corners. And while I sometimes miss my old life, I have also grown into this one — sunburn, slang, and all.
The Lingering Minus
Distance. One word, that’s the minus. The knowledge that, if something happens to those I love back in England, I can’t just jump in the car and be there. The cost, the time, the emotional toll — those are real.
I have come to accept that this is the price of choosing a new life and I made that choice. You gain freedom and sunshine, but you lose proximity and shared history. You build new roots, but part of your heart stays elsewhere. It is a quiet ache that never entirely leaves you — and perhaps it shouldn’t. It is a reminder of the richness of having lived and loved in more than one place.
Minus: The Price of Sunshine
Of course, there are days when the sunshine feels more like punishment than blessing. The heat can be brutal — the kind that presses on your chest and makes you question every life choice that led you outdoors. The flies are relentless, the sunburns sneaky, and the summers long enough to test your patience.
Minus: The Quiet Ache of Nostalgia
Still, no matter how fulfilling life here became, a part of me is still tethered to the UK — to the accents, the humour, the television, the sense of shared history. There are moments when I long for things that don’t exist here: the sound of rain on old windows, a proper cup of tea that tastes like home, even the collective grumbling of the British public.
Homesickness is not a constant ache; it’s more like a tide. It ebbs and flows, sometimes catching you off guard. It arrives with the smell of rain or the sound of a certain song, and suddenly you’re somewhere else entirely. I have learned not to fight it. You can love your new home deeply and still miss the old one fiercely. The two truths can coexist.
Minus: The Fragility of Connection
Belonging comes with its own fragility. When you build a life in a new country, you must work harder to stay connected to those you left behind. Relationships stretch, and some don’t survive the distance, no matter how much effort you make. I can attest to that. Time zones make conversations infrequent, and lives move on. People back home change, and so do you. You find yourself returning after years away, expecting everything to feel familiar, and instead, it feels slightly foreign.
That’s one of the quiet heartbreaks of emigrating — the realisation that home isn’t static. It evolves, even when you’re not there to see it. And so, you return to visit and find that what you’re homesick for no longer exists, at least not in the way you remember. You start to understand that “home” has become more of a feeling than a place.
Minus: The Cost of Living
Of course, all that sunshine and lifestyle come with a price tag. I quickly discovered that Australia is the land where even the air feels taxed. Groceries, rent, coffee — everything costs slightly more than you think it should.
I once made the rookie mistake of popping to the supermarket “for a few things” and appeared $150 poorer. Bread was suddenly artisanal, milk was organic, and the word “imported” haunted every aisle. Back home, a night out with friends might set you back £20. In Australia, it’s a financial decision that requires budgeting and a small loan. Still, there’s something liberating about adapting. You stop converting prices in your head after a while, and before you know it, you’re defending $6 coffee as “worth it for the beans.”
Minus: The Wildlife Wants You Dead
Australia’s tourism ads don’t quite prepare you for the local fauna. The first time I saw a huntsman spider, I assumed it was a small marsupial. I remember standing perfectly still, debating whether to move house, when an Australian friend casually said, “Oh, that? He’s harmless.” Harmless? It was the size of a teacup and looked like it could pick the lock.
Then there were snakes — or rather, the constant possibility of snakes. Australians treat snakes like we treat adverse weather forecasts: “Oh yeah, there might be one around, just wear proper shoes.” I, meanwhile, was checking my garden as if I were defusing a bomb.
And don’t get me started on magpies. No one mentioned that spring in Australia doubles as swooping season — a time when perfectly respectable adults’ cycle to work with zip ties sticking out of their helmets, looking like deranged porcupines.
Minus: The Language (Yes, English… but Not Quite)
You’d think moving to another English-speaking country would make things easy. Think again. Australians have their own dictionary, and it’s mostly made up of abbreviations. Afternoon becomes arvo, breakfast is brekky, and mosquito is mozzie. It’s like the country collectively decided to give up halfway through most words.
Then there’s the slang. The first time someone told me to bring a plate, I didn’t realise they meant “bring a dish of food.” I once heard someone say, “She’s packed a sad,” and genuinely thought they were talking about luggage.
But after a while, it grows on you. There’s a musicality to the language, a rhythm that feels cheerful. And I now say, “no worries” without irony — though I still haven’t quite embraced “good on ya.”
Looking Back, Moving Forward
Two decades on, I see my move to Australia as one of the defining choices of my life. It taught me resilience, gratitude, and acceptance. It reminded me that every gain carries a loss, and every loss carries a lesson.
If I could go back and tell my 2005 self anything, I’d say: “This won’t be easy, but it will be worth it. The homesickness will come and go, but the sense of possibility will stay. You’ll cry over goodbyes and celebrate new beginnings. You’ll find that the world is both smaller and bigger than you ever imagined.”
Australia gave me a life I hadn’t planned but have come to love deeply — with all its contradictions, its laughter, its sunshine, and its shadows. And that, I think, is the truest picture of any great adventure — not perfect, not painless, but profoundly real.
