The real face of expat life: the homesickness we dare not show

Rock bottom. That’s where I was when we got back from France.

We come home from an intense stay, the kind that fills you to the brim: big family gatherings, meals that go on forever, grandparents spoiling the kids just a little too much. That simple euphoria of being all together. And then we land, and it’s back to reality. The back-to-work feeling everyone knows, that Sunday-evening slump we’ve all felt.

Except we feel it tenfold, because “getting back to it” this time isn’t just Monday morning at the office. It’s picking up your life again from more than 9,000 km away from your family.

Someone once told me that family isn’t only your parents, it’s also the one you build, the one you choose. I think about that often since I left. But that day, coming home, that phrase wasn’t quite enough to fill the void.

The expat game

This is the deal: when you agree to move far away, you know you’ll see the people you love far less. Every time, it’s heartbreaking, for us and for them. You question the decision to leave everything behind. Every time, there’s a readjustment phase. Then routine settles in again, and those doubts were just a rough patch before the next big holiday.

And yet this time, coming back home had never hit me so hard.

The fantasy of summer in France

We idealise our holidays, they exist in their own bubble of time. Summer in France is the best season: the weather is warm and sunny, the seasonal fruit is divine, the little markets are impossibly charming, and you find yourself thinking that local produce should be on the UNESCO World Heritage list.

Except we see France through holiday-tinted glasses, not the everyday grind. What we miss isn’t really “France”, it’s that summer bubble, outside of normal time, where everything feels simpler and softer.

Back home, we make excuses to shake off that post-holiday slump. “France is great in summer, but not in winter.” “Petrol’s too expensive.” We rationalise, without quite admitting it to ourselves.

We’re happy to be home, to see our dog, our cat. But it feels strangely empty and quiet, as though something’s off. The readjustment doesn’t come easily. The kids are a bit lost too. Coming back marks the end of the holidays, in every sense.

After 8 years, the turning point?

Maybe we’ve grown tired of it? After 8 years, who knows, maybe this is the turning point in an expat adventure. You start thinking it was good while it lasted, but now maybe it’s time to go back. Parents and grandparents are getting older, health problems are appearing, and with them comes the guilt of not being by their side.

I even caught myself imagining moving back to France. If we went back, where would we settle? Near the family, right? And what would I do? Go back to a salaried job? What school for the kids? And the dog and cat, how do we handle the move?

Lots of questions, which led to more anxiety than anything else.

Back to routine

We tell ourselves it’ll pass. And in the end, for two weeks, we keep playing out every possible scenario in our heads.

The reality check? The start of the new school year. Nothing like it to pull you back in. No time to daydream about a thousand different plans: you’re straight back into project-manager mode, optimising school runs, homework, after-school activities, not to mention meals and keeping the house in order.

Little by little, the idea of moving back fades. French media that filters through reminds us why we left: crime, injustice, economic crisis, overtaxation. The media always exaggerates, people will say. But there’s always a grain of truth in it, all the same.

What keeps us here

We reconnect with friends here who have, in the end, become “family.” The sunshine and mild temperatures reassure us our choice was right. We live in slight denial about the cost of living that keeps creeping up. We complain, sure, but we wouldn’t leave because of it.

Unless…

Unless it becomes unbearable, the finances no longer hold up, and family ends up feeling too far away. Yes, we think about that too. In France, there are safety nets that don’t necessarily exist elsewhere. As a self-employed person, my income varies month to month, and the schools here are expensive when you choose the French or international system.

The price of paradise

So yes, one day we might go back to France. We know that. But for now, we want to keep living in this fantasy of tropical paradise life. We bury our heads in the sand for as long as we can.

We’ll go back when we’ve chosen to, not because we were forced into it for failing to make it work. There’s also our residence permit, which lets us live here as long as we meet the rules and criteria. If the revenue isn’t there, we’ll have to pack up.

Reflections after a few weeks back from France

That’s the expat game, at least in Mauritius. It has its highs, its lows, its doubts that come in waves, and its very real reasons to stay despite everything.

So do your research before jumping into this game, so you can appreciate every part of it, including the parts that never make it onto Instagram.