The Immigrant Journey: Between Here and There, Now and Then, Home and Away
In February 2018, I packed my life into two suitcases, made the conscious decision to leave everyone I knew, and bought a one-way ticket to a country I had never been to — Australia. It was the start of a whole new chapter in my life, filled with excitement and trepidation in equal measure.
I grew up in Mumbai, India, in an environment where my parents, siblings, and a tight circle of friends were the centre of my world. I was very coddled and cosseted. I ate my mum’s cooking daily until I was 24, drove my dad’s car like it was mine, had the deadliest laughs with my siblings, and confided in my friends without fear of judgment. Life was good.
My elder sister, always encouraging, instilled in me the importance of freedom from an early age. Sure there were restrictions growing up in a semi-conservative environment where everyone knew your business. I learned the art of pursuing what I wanted. I wasn’t always right, but hey, that’s the only way to collect the best life stories, right?
Landing in Sydney was surreal. Excitement and uncertainty walked hand in hand. The landscapes were different, the people unfamiliar, and the cultural cues took time to decode.
I still remember my first day working at a busy café, trying to make sense of the rapid-fire Aussie slang I was surrounded by when an overwhelming wave of self-doubt washed over me. I couldn't help but feel a pinch of discomfort when my colleagues struggled to pronounce my name—a simple but significant part of my identity. Yet, amidst all the novelty, I was determined to belong. To figure it out. To Make. It. Work.
There were moments of inner conflict—navigating a completely new education system, building a social life from scratch, and constantly wondering if I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
The hardest part though was the homesickness. It had a way of sneaking up on me — especially during festivals. I’ll never forget calling my brother during Diwali while on a break at San Churros, trying (and failing) not to cry. I missed the chaos, the lights, the bad jokes, the people who just got me. And yes, I absolutely emotionally devoured a tray of churros dipped in chocolate to deal with my sorrows. (No regrets there)
But this isn’t a sad story.
It’s actually exactly what I captioned my last airport photo before boarding that flight in February 2018: “...the beginning of something amazingggggg.” (With all the extra g’s for drama.)
As time passed, I realised this experience wasn’t just about academics or building a livelihood - it was about rediscovering who I really am in a brand new context. I learnt what it meant to protect myself when there is no plan B whatsoever. No one to fully understand the agony of a bad roommate or the quiet victory of making it through a tough week.
Sure, my family was just a call away. But when you are dealt with loneliness, low self-esteem, or feeling invisible - it’s a battle you need to fight alone.
And yet… I wouldn’t trade it.
One of the most sincere aspects of this story has been realising that home isn’t always a place on the map; rather, it is any place where I feel I am accepted for myself, where I have a voice and where I am able to grow as a person.
It did take time, but I have found home in the Land Down Under. I have drawn strength from community, found beautiful friendships and contributed to my adopted home in ways I never imagined. Whether I’m lighting Diwali diyas with friends in Sydney or calling my father for advice on buying my first car, I have learned to carry my roots with pride while embracing new ways of sustaining relationships.
Yes, I will always be Indian - a true Mumbaikar at heart. But becoming an Australian citizen was a milestone that affirmed something important: my identity is no longer about choosing either-or. It’s about embracing both-and.
This acceptance, however, comes with a lot of guilt. Guilt of not being around my parents as they grow old. Guilt for missing out on milestones with my siblings. Guilt for not sitting beside my best friends on their wedding days or baby showers.
But maybe that’s the cost we immigrants quietly carry. The price of choosing something more than familiarity. Of choosing ourselves. And maybe… that’s okay.
There’s a strange kind of peace in accepting this in-betweenness — of living in a space where two cultures, two timelines, and two homes overlap. I’ve learned to stop searching for clean edges. I’m not here or there, now or then, entirely home or fully away. I’m all of it, at once.
Looking back, I know my story — like so many others — is still unfolding. It’s about honouring where I came from while embracing what lies ahead. And so, I continue to walk this path — rooted in memory, open to new beginnings — forever straddling between here and there, now and then, home and away.
