Series: Between Worlds
Reflections on migration, identity, and the meaning of place
Crown Range, Wanaka, NZ ©emmasherab
Between Two Places
What happens when you build a life across two continents? When home becomes a shifting idea rather than a single location? In this piece, I reflect on the quiet complexities of living between New Zealand and the UK – the pull of the familiar, the pace of the new, and the liminal space in between.
I was born in New Zealand, raised there, shaped by its landscapes, people, and pace of life. These days I live in the UK. I’ve been here a long time—long enough to have built a life that feels familiar, to have friends who know me well, to have woven myself into the fabric of a different culture. And yet, I still live between two places. Not quite rooted in either. Not fully home in one or the other.
There are certain things New Zealand will always hold: family, old friends, the bush and sea, the kind of quiet that sits just beneath the surface of everyday life. I miss the space, the way the sky opens, the ease of connection with people who’ve known me since I was small. There’s a kind of shorthand that develops with those people—no backstory required. I miss that more than I often admit.
But the UK has given me other things. Momentum. Challenge. Variety. A new family. It’s a place where conversations can go in unexpected directions. Where things are constantly shifting. I’ve found opportunity here and a different kind of community. And over time, I’ve built a version of home that works. Most of the time, at least.
©emmasherab
Still, there’s an odd kind of loneliness that comes from having your life stretched across two hemispheres. Wherever I am, something’s missing. In New Zealand, I feel a version of myself return—one that’s tied to who I used to be. In the UK, I’m sharper, more outward-looking. More restless, maybe. I’ve had to grow into both versions.
I know I’m not alone in this. The number of New Zealanders leaving home for good has increased sharply in recent years. Australia, the UK, Canada—there’s a steady outward movement, driven by housing pressures, economic limits, and the pull of possibility. For some, it’s temporary. For others, like me, it becomes long-term, even permanent. But permanence doesn’t always mean ease. The ache of distance doesn’t disappear. It just becomes part of the background.
©emmasherab
Living between two places reshapes your idea of identity. You stop thinking in absolutes. I don’t feel entirely British, but I don’t feel fully Kiwi anymore either—not in the day-to-day, not in the way you need to be to feel anchored. I’ve found that identity becomes more about movement than about fixed labels. It’s shaped by where you are, who you’re with, what you’ve carried with you, and what you’ve let go of.
There are benefits, of course. You learn to adapt quickly. You become more open, more observant, more resilient. You figure things out without a map. You learn how to be the outsider, and then—eventually—how to belong in a way that’s less about fitting in and more about making space for yourself. That mindset, once developed, doesn’t really go away. It becomes part of how you move through the world.
Sometimes I think about moving back. I imagine being closer to my family, being able to pop over for dinner, to be present for the small things that make a life. But then I think about what I’d lose—the energy, the access to culture and history, the friendships I’ve built here. It’s not an easy equation. I don’t think it ever will be.
What I’ve come to accept is that living between two places means living with a kind of constant negotiation. There’s no final answer, no “right” place to be. There’s just movement, return, departure, and the slow work of staying connected—across time zones, across lives that have continued in your absence. It’s a strange kind of privilege to belong in two places. But it’s also a quiet grief, knowing you’ll never fully be in either.
These days, I try to hold both with equal care. I let the homesickness come and go. I keep a suitcase that’s always half-ready. I talk to friends across continents and keep the calendar open for future visits. I’ve stopped trying to resolve the tension. This is my life now—a life between two places, both of which I love, and neither of which I’m quite ready to give up.