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Okay, Now What? Back in Chicago

After three wonderful years in London, I have returned to America. Impeccable timing – I know.

For the past six months or so, I have been living in a blissful limbo. By mid-Summer 2024, I was fairly certain I wouldn’t be renewing my visa in London. It wasn’t for any dissatisfaction with London (though I have thoughts on their washer-dryers), but rather a feeling that it was my time to leave. I honestly didn’t put that much thought into the decision, nor was I stressed about the looming deadline. I felt like decision was made before I could be too critical, and I reveled in my life just happening to me. For the last few months of my time in London, I was able to simply enjoy my life and be present. Which leads me to today – Day two of the second Trump Presidency, when it is literally -8 degrees Fahrenheit in Chicago, wondering if perhaps I could’ve (or should’ve) put more thought into my move. That said, I’m fairly confident I won’t regret my decision, and even if I do, I have a community of friends and family in London who will host me should I need it. But for now, I am happy to be home, despite the weather, and despite the absolute losers running this country.

Early this week, I rewatched Joan Didion: The Center Will Not Hold on Netflix. I was reminded, not only of her effortless coolness, but also of a quote from an essay of hers titled Why I Write, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” While I find comfort in being back in Chicago, my desire to explain and to understand the world around me feels more urgent. It was easy to allow the Atlantic Ocean to be the space (literally and figuratively) that separated me from my biggest fears and anxieties. During my pre-move limbo, I didn’t write and I was rarely self-critical. But now, I’ve been catapulted from my blissful dream-state to a harsh reality and the floodgates have opened (that is to say I have several frantically written notes on my phone that I am hoping to turn into pieces at some point).

Before I love you and leave you (as my British friend Jess would say), I recently reread one of my earliest articles about assimilating to London and it made me laugh. In the piece, I reflected on the experience of a different kind of limbo “between American and British English.” After three years, here are a list of words I will not (or am unable to) give up: peckish, charity shop, the tap (faucet), picky bits, and bin (garbage). I will leave bloody and loo in the UK where they belong.

And because why not, a brief list of numbers from my time in London:

• 3 years and 2 months

• 4 Prime Ministers (1 famously outlived by a head of lettuce)

• 2 Monarchs

• 2 Flats (though the second was more of a house of mice than a flat).

• 1 Master’s Degree

• Innumerable pints (RIP Neck Oil)

• Equally innumerable Gail’s pastries (technically – I don’t think something can be equally innumerable - but you get the idea).