I’ve got exactly 2 weeks until I return to England. I’m not ready mentally. Maybe it’s because it’s an island and it feels like a prison.
I’m not ready to say goodbye to my family or to my friends who I did not get to see enough of.
I am not ready to stop driving through Culvers. I’ve still got 6 free ice cream tickets and a free kids meal.
I’m not ready to go back to the dark, dark days or the endless rain.
I’m not ready to watch my mom cry as we go through security at the airport or explain (again) to my crying children why daddy can’t be a doctor in America.
I am not ready to get up at 6am and take the kids to school.
I am not ready to pet my dog for the last time knowing that at 15 years old and cancer ridden, he will not be around next summer to welcome us home.
I am not ready to let go of another piece of my American identity. Every year I am gone more and more slips away. I am losing my vocabulary and spatial awareness. 1/3 of my life has been spent abroad. I am not ready for the day that 1/3 of my life was in America.
I am not ready to go back to England and be “the American”. It’s just a constant reminder that I am not “home”.
I. Am. Not. Ready.