“Spain is an ex I don’t want to talk about.”

We were in the car, on the way to the airport. I was driving while my American friend said those words to me, just about to board a plane to leave Spain and return to the country where she was born.

“Spain is an ex I don’t want to talk about.”

I know that feeling well: going back to your home country reluctantly, wishing you could leave again, looking for your next destination, disappointed because you tried to stay in your new home and it didn’t work out.

At first, being back home is full of excitement. Your family and friends are eager to see you, to tell you things and hear your stories too. You might even have a fling waiting—someone who liked every single one of your photos religiously while you were away.

But the excitement fades and you’re back to reality: the family home, living with your parents, the same circles of friends, the same bars and parties.

The same view from your window, the same meals, the same plans, the same places…

When your mum has cooked your favourite dish and you’ve gotten drunk with your friends, the dreaded question arises: is this it? Is this what the rest of my life is going to look like?

Classic post-Erasmus depression. I’m not making it up. Apparently, it’s even normal.

Post-Erasmus, post-migration attempt, or post that job opportunity that seemed like it was going to work out.

And maybe it did work out. But it ended. And now you have to deal with everything that comes with leaving a place you had come to think of as home, knowing you might never return.

The other struggle is with your surroundings. They’re all the same. And you’ve changed—so much. Can’t they see it?

You feel like an imposter, living your old life like an actor playing a role, when your real self should be somewhere else, doing different things, speaking another language, getting on different buses.

As happens after a breakup, once the initial shock wears off, you start to idealize the past.

You remember fondly the disgusting smell of melted cheese coming out of the subway entrance because there was a sandwich stand waiting for you downstairs.

You keep telling that same story over and over again, laughing until you cry about that cultural misunderstanding only you find funny.

You listen again and again to the same songs and bands that played on the radio or in the bars there. You watch shows and films from there, read the news from there…

You try to recreate the recipes you used to make there, with ingredients you can only find in their supermarkets.

That “there” feels further and further away, and you can’t bring it back here.

If you feel this way, don’t worry. It passes.

The wound heals, it turns into a scar, and one day you’ll be able to talk about it without pain. It will become a part of you that you wouldn’t change for anything in the world.

In the pic: Me, during my Erasmus in Berlin.