A little more than a year ago, I moved across the Atlantic. Two months ago, I moved back.
To borrow that sentence I keep on reading, with some motivational beat at the background, courtesy of my Instagram’s algorithm, “I once packed my whole life into a 23kg suitcase and moved to a city where I didn't know anyone“.
There’s whole lotta jazz about moving. The lure of cutting your ties to where you once belonged and starting over. Pursuing that “new beginning” a zillion Hollywood movies and pop songs call on you to buy: “I hopped off the plane at LAX with a dream and my cardigan“. Reminder: If it’s a party in the U.S.A. you’re crashing, this fresh start is also subject to you losing your eyesight looking at one particular website checking your visa status: www.uscis.gov.
While moving seems to be in the spotlight, I don’t see a fair share of attention on a possibly even more interesting phenomenon: moving back. Lemme do some public service real quick and offer my two cents on the (or at least my) psychology of taking that return flight.
Step 1: Anticipation
Boy, did I dream about coming back home after my year studying abroad! Countless times, I closed my eyes and thought about what I would eat when I got back to my city. Or who I would see, which cafes - you know those shops where you’re a regular and people know your order - I would pay a visit to, everything of that sort I thought about long and hard. This gave me a sense of comfort. And, of course, longing.
The closest experience I had to this was when I was serving in the military (a mandatory one-month long training). Every time I was bored or distressed, I would mentally walk myself to a very nice hotel in Istanbul, telling myself I’d go there once I was out. And, considering how little flattering the amenities were there, I also remember dreaming about spending a long day in a nice hamam. To be fair, these daydreams ended up costing me a small fortune for a night in a boutique hotel overlooking the Bosphorus. I took a cab from my apartment in Maslak to this hotel in Cengelkoy, a distance of nine miles / 15 km, the shortest trip I’ve made to arrive at a hotel for a vacation.
I’m candidly telling you that I actually compared my military service to the life-changing year I spent at HLS so that you know actually how spoiled I am!
As you can see, there is a lot of romanticizing going on in the background when you’re anticipating your return. You can set your expectations quite high, which (SPOILER ALERT) is the perfect way to set yourself up for disappointment.
During this time, that is when you’ve just moved to a new place, you also suffer from nostalgia bias. Everything (yes, everything - because this is a logical fallacy we’re dealing with) you’ve left behind seems so much better now. Think of it like an ex, who for no apparent reason strikes you as way hotter, smarter, funnier than they were before. This is obviously because you don’t remember the things that bothered you. Or, the weight they had on you before is now gone because of the time that passed in between and the distance.
Lastly, you can easily put the blame about many things going wrong in your life on the move. Just make that big change the culprit for everything. You’re not exercising like you used to? Don’t blame it on your lack of motivation, or absence of a gym buddy you can be accountable to. Just blame it on the boogie.
All this leads up to one big bowl of glitter waiting for you when you return from your conquest.
Step 2: The “I’m Back” High
After all, the homecoming hype is real. You feel like a local celebrity. A college football team coming back to town after the championship, an American Idol contender, or simply a friend, a daughter, a lover who has been missed dearly by so many for so long.
People move schedules to meet you. There are parties thrown in your honor, greetings like no other. Naturally, you find yourself thinking “ah, this is the life!”.
Like any high, though, the hype doesn’t last long. Once the decor, the instruments, and the extended cast leave the stage, you end up seeing your home for what it really is. Just the same old city you now glaze over with a fresh pair of eyes. Surprisingly, that is where the actual gem might be hidden.
Step 3: Realizations
Before the Move
I spent my late teens and early twenties thinking I had a very strong sense of belonging. So strong that if you were to separate me from my roots, I would no longer bloom.
Sitting in Constitutional Law class in 1L at law school, I listened to a beloved professor, someone we consider an all-knowing force, describing this. What adds meaning to our lives, he said, is what is around us. The street we walk on every day. The people we casually greet. The big oak tree, whose shadow generously protects us from the Sun. If I closed my eyes at that moment, I might as well have imagined a wise green Jedi master saying “Meaning to our lives, what gives? Around us, what is.”
This reminded me of a book I studied in high school. One by Novel laureate Orhan Pamuk called “The Museum of Innocence”, which - by the way - has an amazing screen adaptation now running on Netflix. The book’s protagonist’s, Kemal, is a lost soul. He falls in love and starts feeling again. When he loses her to someone else, his whole identity, his very existence is left in shreds. He begins collecting pieces of her, Füsun. Random things like a hair clip, or a salt shaker she touched during dinner. Piece by piece, he tries to rebuild his self through his belonging towards her.
A powerful illustration, I thought. Perhaps along the way, I worked up a similar imagery in my mind. The street, the neighbors, the big oak tree - they solidified a special relationship I had. One with no other than my home, Turkey.
As a romantic, I’ve always seen my life (our lives actually) as overlapping with my country’s story. Some of us had stand-alone chapters in this book while most of us made small appearances. But, in every aspect, our struggles, fights, hopes and desires were intertwined with those of our countries.
Going and coming back, though, changed the way I perceive this.
After the Move
By this point in the story, I thought coming home would fill all the gaps caused by my leaving. Think of it as Thanos’ Infinity Gauntlet you see in Marvel’s Avengers. I had all the stones except for one - the Soul Stone. Getting the Soul Stone that was my home would allow me to click my fingers and create wonders.
I did put the Soul Stone to where it should go. And I did click my fingers. But, I only heard a subtle noise. Nothing more came of it.
In actuality, after spending only a few weeks in Turkey, I realized that there was no big change waiting for me now that I had come home. I wasn’t suddenly invincible. The places I missed so much weren’t what I had imagined them would be. I was so lucky to have my family and friends around me. But, that did not mean I wasn’t missing my people in Cambridge - now in all different parts of the world.
Back in Boston, I craved the morning routine I had when I used to live in Istanbul. Wake up early. Make myself a cup of coffee. Drink it in peace listening to some soft music and eating two dates, one of my favorite fruits. Walk to the gym. Work out for an hour. Come home. Listen to the news as I have my typical wholesome breakfast. And, head to work.
In August, I ended up missing certain routine things I did in Cambridge. Like eating a freshly baked pastry with some coffee at Tatte in Harvard Square. Or, placing my classic bagel order at the Black Sheep and having it outside in Harvard Yard, people-watching and looking at centuries-old buildings. And most importantly, laughing with my good friends in our dorms.
Then, I realized. Maybe home was not a physical place. Or, it was not like that for me anymore. When I thought I missed home during those cold days of never-ending winter in Boston, I think I missed belonging. Belonging somewhere, to someone, to some defining thing.
Well, when I boarded my return flight TK2 at Gate 6 at JFK Airport on August 2, I did have a sense of belonging, albeit much to my surprise. I was lucky to be a part of a one-of-a-kind institution. I met and worked with exceptional young lawyers from everywhere. And I, together with some very special people, built myself a strong safety net of friends. I belonged to a new place, new people and new endeavors. I even met a new Can. A newer version of him.
On the Move
So, I learned. Home isn’t a place. It is a sense of belonging. And, what about the interconnectedness between self and country, I asked.
I wouldn’t go as far as to suggest that it is gone or is less now. But, it is changing. And, I no longer think of belonging as something spatial. It’s something portable. More deliberate. Maybe something that moves in one’s mind. Like a story he writes, or tells himself.
I recall one prophetic line this thirty-something New York gal wrote in her column in this ‘90s show that fits with my query perfectly:
“But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself.”
***
I was home. Then, I moved to a place that I was able to call home after some time. Now, I’m waiting to go somewhere I wish to call home. That is the psychology of moving back. Or, just being on the move…