A Literary Prescription for
For the strange, thrilling, lonely business of making a home somewhere new.
Moving to another country is two things at once: a great adventure and a quiet, ongoing grief. There is the thrill of the new — a different light, a different language, a self you get to remake — and underneath it the ache of everything left behind, and the odd loneliness of being a foreigner in the small, daily ways nobody warns you about. And there is the strange discovery that you now belong fully to neither place. These books, poems and quotes are company for all of it: the excitement and the homesickness, the slow work of turning a foreign town into somewhere that is, at last, home.
“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.”Saint Augustine
Three of these are the warm, funny memoirs of people who did exactly this — upped sticks and started again abroad — and three are novels about arriving somewhere new and slowly, awkwardly, learning to belong.
Hemingway’s luminous memoir of being young, poor and gloriously alive in 1920s Paris. It is the book that makes you want to run away to a foreign city and become someone new — and it’s honest, too, about the hunger and doubt beneath the romance. The definitive account of how a place you move to can lodge itself in you for the rest of your life.
When her husband is offered a job at Lego, Russell moves to rural Denmark and spends a year investigating why Danes are reputedly the happiest people on earth. Funny, curious and full of useful observations about hygge, trust and slowing down, it’s part memoir, part experiment — lovely company for anyone adjusting to the strange rhythms of a new country.
An honest, very funny memoir of an Australian journalist who follows a Frenchman to Paris and has to learn, from scratch, how to belong. Turnbull is clear-eyed about the loneliness and the endless small humiliations of being a foreigner, as well as the eventual, hard-won love of it. The most useful of these for the actual emotional experience.
A young woman arrives alone at a small hotel in 1930s France, carrying a secret and hoping to remake herself somewhere no one knows her. Faulks writes the particular solitude of the newcomer with great tenderness, and the atmosphere of provincial France is so vivid you can smell it. Quiet, atmospheric and moving.
A gleefully rude, very funny novel about a young Englishman’s bewildering year working in Paris — the strikes, the romance, the dog mess, the magnificent French disdain. The perfect antidote if the dreamy Provence books make it all look too easy: this one is honest about how absurd and maddening a new country can be, and laughs its way through.
An Indian family, uprooted by tragedy, opens a restaurant in a French village directly across the road from a Michelin-starred one, and culinary war — then something warmer — breaks out. A big-hearted novel about culture clash, food and the slow, delicious business of belonging somewhere that first rejected you.
Lahiri moved to Rome and stopped writing in English, and this book — composed in Italian and printed with the original alongside the translation — is her account of what that did to her. It is the best thing there is on the strangest part of moving abroad: becoming, in a new language, a blunter and simpler version of yourself, and having to decide whether that person is a loss or a beginning.
Eilis Lacey leaves Enniscorthy for New York in the 1950s because there is nothing for her at home, and Tóibín writes the homesickness so plainly it is almost hard to read: the letters, the boarding house, the flatness of a life she did not choose. Then she builds something, and then Ireland calls her back, and she has to decide. The best novel there is about the particular trap of ending up with two homes and being fully at ease in neither.
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Three short poems, each read in a moment — the welcome every arrival hopes for, the homesickness that follows, and the slow making of a new home.
“The New Colossus”
Emma Lazarus, 1883
The most famous welcome ever written, carved at the foot of the Statue of Liberty. Whatever your reason for crossing to a new shore, Lazarus speaks for the hope every arrival carries: that somewhere out there, a door will open, and a new country will make room.
“Into My Heart an Air That Kills”
A. E. Housman, 1896
Homesickness distilled into four lines. Housman calls it the ‘land of lost content’ — the home you can see shining in memory but cannot return to, at least not as it was. Anyone who has built a life in a new country knows this ache: the far country that blows, unbidden, straight into the heart.
“Home”
Edgar Guest, 1916
Guest’s comfort is that a home isn’t made in a day, or by a deed of sale. It’s the slow accumulation of ordinary living — the sun and the shadow, the roaming and the missing — wherever in the world you happen to have landed. Give the new place time, and it becomes home too.
A few lines short enough to hold onto, from people who knew what it is to love and belong in more than one place.
You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.
Miriam Adeney
Home is not just the place where you happen to be born. It is the place where you become yourself.
Pico Iyer
If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
Ernest Hemingway
You are only free when you realize you belong no place — you belong every place — no place at all.
Maya Angelou
Making a home in a new country is slow work. It happens in small things: the day the market stops feeling foreign, the first dream you have in the new language, the moment a stranger becomes a neighbour.
Georgia Clare
From Georgia
A few short practices for the threshold months, when the new country is not home yet and the old one is no longer quite yours.
Rebuilding Your Life Meditation
A guided practice for gently setting down what you have left behind and opening, with hope, to the new life you are beginning to build.
Listen Now For Free
Fear or Intuition: Trusting Your Inner Yes
A short talk on telling fear from intuition, and learning to trust your own quiet yes.
Listen Now For Free
Learning to Belong to the Life You Have
On making a home wherever you find yourself, and belonging to the people and the life actually around you rather than the ones you left behind.
Read the Essay →
The 21-Day Meditation Course
Three weeks of short, guided meditations to help you build a calm, steady daily practice — useful when everything around you is unfamiliar and the days have lost their old shape.
Start the 21-Day Course →Questions people ask
For the emotional truth of it, begin with Sarah Turnbull’s Almost French, which is honest about the loneliness as well as the joy. For something sunnier, Helen Russell’s The Year of Living Danishly. And if a whole book is too much today, the poems below take only a minute.
Completely, and it’s the thing nobody quite prepares you for. Moving abroad is genuinely two feelings at once — adventure and loss — and they don’t cancel out; they sit side by side. Feeling homesick doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. It just means you loved what you left.
Lines worth keeping include “Home is not just the place where you happen to be born. It is the place where you become yourself.” (Pico Iyer) and Miriam Adeney’s line about part of your heart always being elsewhere. You’ll find more in the quotes section above.
Usually, yes — but slowly, and not in the way you expect. It arrives in small, ordinary moments rather than one grand click of belonging: knowing the shortcuts, dreaming in the language, a neighbour who becomes a friend. Give it time. Home, in the end, is mostly a matter of having lived somewhere long enough.