It was Spring of 2016. I came home from work to an excited husband. Not because I was wearing a tight dress. Well. He told me the offer was confirmed and we would be moving to Toronto in December. It was not the sound of music to my ears.
I remember looking at my husband and not uttering a word. I could not even bring myself to say “Congratulations!”. I looked excited. OK, I was but just not in the Oh-my-God-you-mean-I-don’t-have-to-face-nonsense-my-students-throw-at-me-on-an-hourly-basis-?! kind of way. In fact, it was a distinct sense of misplaced timing.
I am not and certainly do not want to sound like a ungrateful b*tch. Living in another country is a tick off my bucket list and I am happy to be able to do so with the love of my life.
But what’s going to happen to my job? Despite my students’ ability to make my blood boil, I enjoyed every minute of it. I worked my ass off and was making headway for advancement. The timing could not be worse.
I pondered about how to break the news to my boss, colleagues and students. I tried to suppress the sadness of relinquishing the satisfaction this part of my life gave me and the fear of things to come and life AFTER Toronto (yes, I think a lot. Maybe too much).
I consumed SO.MUCH.JUNK (food and TV) to stop myself from going nuts just thinking about all these issues.
In the months that followed, everything happened swiftly. I broke the news to my boss and colleagues, I started to shed my portfolio and knew I pretty much have to start from ground zero after my return (damn it!), if I could return (double damn it!).
We broke the news to the family. I was worried about my mum. My mum is, well, a worrier. It’s hereditary. Doesn’t help that I am an only child.
We sold our beloved apartment. We moved in with my in-laws. We sold our car that saw us through so many great years. No job, no house, no car. Nothing. Some of my friends saw it as a blessing. To me, I was losing stability. I cried so much in that few months I amazed myself at how I didn’t die of dehydration.
We packed, we moved, we looked for apartments in Toronto and wondered how I would survive the infamous Canadian winter (Singapore’s lowest temperature ever was 19 degC when I was, like, 10 years old). We had breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner appointments packed to the brim with loved ones. We said our goodbyes. Through all, I was still struggling to make sense of the move, the gain and the loss. I didn’t want to burden my husband with these thoughts because he should not have to feel apologetic about this great opportunity in his career. I didn’t want to sound too negative in front of my friends. I was trying not to look and sound like said b*tch.
8 months later, here we are. Land of the maple. And I am writing this post. And there is still so much to share but I need to go cook now. Till next post.
Know someone who has a similar experience? Or maybe you are a guru on
sob stories life changing moments? Feel free to comment and share. Please keep it honest, not mean. Merci. _CC