How Moving Abroad Broke Me—and Then Healed Me

I didn’t know it at the time, but when I packed my life into a suitcase and moved to London, I was about to unravel completely.

If you’ve ever left behind your family, your friends, and everything familiar to start over somewhere new—even just a different city—you’ll know what I mean. Life abroad is often romanticised, and in many ways, that’s fair. The highs are extraordinary, some of the most liberating, life-affirming experiences I’ve ever had.

But before the highs came the hard parts. The messy, lonely, anxiety-filled moments.

When you move to a new place, you’re learning everything from scratch. Things you once did on autopilot, like grocery shopping, suddenly become a whole adventure. New supermarkets, unfamiliar products, another language or currency—it’s like being a beginner at life again.

You learn how to make friends from the ground up. You find new ways to make a house (or tiny apartment room) feel like home. You start building routines around a completely different version of yourself, one that isn’t defined by your past, your upbringing, or the expectations of people who’ve known you forever.

And in that freedom, there is so much magic.

For me, one of the greatest highs is looking at people who, not long ago, were total strangers and realising they’re now some of the most important people in my life. Sometimes I catch myself wondering, How did we find each other? How is it possible that people I hadn’t even met a year ago now feels like home?

Abbey & Isaac, my London family

The personal growth is unmatched. For the first time in my life, I don’t question who I am. And that feels monumental, especially when I think back to the version of me that existed just a few short years ago. I suffered from debilitating social anxiety throughout high school and university. I couldn’t even go to the shops alone without experiencing tachycardia.

But then one day, every comfort I knew was stripped from under my feet. For the first time in my life, I had to live on my own—in my little beach shack in the gorgeous Horrocks. Suddenly, everything I did in life was on my own. For a year, I was forced to experience living for myself, by myself, for the first time.

At first, it was enervating. I still experienced tachycardia regularly, sometimes never leaving my house after dark, and I spent many nights crying myself to sleep, with the help of gin and ice cream.

Eventually, it got to a point where I realised that if this is what living feels like, then I’m not really living at all. I remember thinking, When did I become so afraid of the world?

That question stuck with me. And in those moments—between the panic and the loneliness—it became a turning point. I didn’t suddenly become brave overnight, but I started doing small things that terrified me just to prove to myself that I could.

At first, it was something as simple as going for a walk at dusk instead of racing home before the sun went down. Then it was striking up a conversation with someone at the café, even if my voice shook. I forced myself to go to local events, to try things solo, to show up even when my whole body was screaming to stay inside.

Horrocks (Photo from www.westernaustralia.com)

I realised I was far more capable than I had ever given myself credit for.

Some days, I celebrated the smallest victories. Other days, I still fell apart. But I started to notice something: I was no longer just surviving. I was coping. Then, eventually, I was living.

I began to understand my triggers. I learned that fear isn’t always something to eliminate, but something to carry with you gently while still choosing to go on.

Slowly, I stopped seeing myself as broken. I started seeing myself as someone who was healing. Now, when I look back on my time living alone in Horrocks, I don’t just remember the loneliness. I remember riding my quad over the sand dunes, watching the sunset, and the tears that slowly dried. When I finally packed my bags to leave, I realised that this little town had given me exactly what I needed—a clean slate.

Riding my quad along the sand dunes

It was there, in that unlikely place, that I made the decision to move to London.

Moving to London had been a dream of mine since I was a little girl, though I never truly believed I was capable of it. But living alone in Horrocks changed something in me. Starting from scratch, with no clear sense of who I was or what I wanted, I found myself thinking back to that younger version of me. I asked: What were my dreams before I forgot who I was?

And there it was—London. A dream that once felt so out of reach, so impossible.

And now?

I feel truly grateful to be living that childhood dream. However, I still have anxious days. I still overthink things, freeze up in crowded rooms, and sometimes feel like I don’t belong. But the difference is, I don’t run from it anymore. I breathe through it. I remind myself that I’ve faced far scarier things and come out stronger every time.

Arriving in London last year

I went from being an introvert in a quiet country town to someone who now spends more time socialising than being alone—something I never imagined I could do. Moving abroad didn’t magically fix me. But it stripped everything back until I had no choice but to meet myself where I was, flaws and all. In doing that, I discovered something I never really believed before: I am resilient. I am capable. I am enough. 

So if you’re stuck in that messy middle of loneliness, anxiousness, second-guessing everything—you’re not falling apart. You’re growing. Growth doesn’t always look graceful. Sometimes, it’s being proud of yourself just for getting out of bed in the morning, or showing up for yourself even when it hurts. The best version of you might just be waiting on the other side of all that.

And if you ask me if I’d do it all again?

In a heartbeat.

Exploring London on my own during my days off