Moving is hard.
I woke up at 3am every morning the week leading up to our last day in Hong Kong. If someone had peeked into our flat while I was organizing and sorting and packing and planning, they may have grown concerned. I’m sure I looked a bit wild.
We traveled for 20 hours with our toddler. I continued to wake at 3am after the arrival, because jet lag and baby jet lag. Everything was new.
Since June, we have been living with a total of four forks for our family of three, and other similar shortages, as we wait for our shipment to arrive in the Netherlands. We make due. We employ flexibility and resourcefulness and resilience. We accept that this is part of a relocation, and compensate with the many marvels of our new home.
Moving as international educators is hard. But, really, it’s not that hard.
Hard would be absconding under cover of night, without farewells.
Hard would be leaving behind our memories and possessions, barely packing at all.
Hard would be trekking across deserts, riding dilapidated boats through the sea.
Hard would be an arrival without welcome, without provision, without safety and security.
Hard would be forced separation from my child. My baby in a cage.
When we arrived in our new home, we were welcomed. When we arrived, we were provided for. When we arrived, we were perhaps disoriented, but we were safe and secure.
I do not mean to discount the difficulties that many international ed folks face when making a move; we must honour these, too. There is true pain in leaving a place, and real challenge in adjusting to a new context. But for me, personally, when I am washing those four forks – again – so we have something to eat our next meal with, I consider how very little actual flexibility, resourcefulness, and resilience have been asked of me during this move. I hold privilege, and my moves are not hard.