Moving Overseas Alone at 20
October 3rd, 2025
Writer: Georgia Silverton
Editor: Zoey Ueland
Home is an enigmatic word that defies any simple definition. It elicits disparate emotions—the discomfort of leaving family and familiarity, the eventual joy of reconnecting with who and what you left behind, and surprise—a place once unfamiliar that eventually becomes comfortable. From 9,200 miles away, the prospect that my life in Sydney, adorned with years of love, is now a 24-hour flight away is challenging, but it simultaneously presents an adventure waiting to be seized.
I squirmed as I looked out of seat 34A’s window and onto the runway. I have always avoided goodbyes – in fact, I loathe them. To me, saying goodbye is a way of acknowledging that everything is coming to an end. As a deeply nostalgic person, I have counteracted my fear of goodbyes by carrying a museum of little moments with me. Each person or period of time that has left an imprint on me, whether tender or blissful, is painted across the walls of my mind.
Vast geographic and emotional spaces stretch between my two homes: a childhood in New York and the rest of my life in Australia. Pictures of the US have always been plastered on the walls of my museum, compelling me to revisit their captions, a myriad of moments waiting to be resumed.
When my plane began to taxi, I replayed the moment I looked back at my parents for the last time at the Sydney Airport Departures sign. I had convinced myself this move would be simple; I thought I was well-versed in American culture enough to be insulated from any feeling of alienation as an international student. Nonetheless, my illusion dissolved as I sat alone on my flight for 24 hours. The gravity of my decision became apparent.
I pressed play on The Notebook, a film that centers on themes of nostalgia. It follows a journey of progression from youth into adulthood through an idealized lens that echoes my own sentiments. Just as Allie and Noah’s story becomes a sustaining memory later in their lives, I knew that I’d look back at this moment as altering the trajectory of my own.
My college pathway has not been linear. I’ve wrestled with uncertainty while watching my siblings pursue passions in law and medicine. It took months of conversations with my family, workshopping ideas, potential scenarios, and the ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ of me moving overseas.
My initial anxieties were overwhelming, but it has shocked me how much Michigan has propelled me closer to finding my definition of home. On my first day, I was immensely overwhelmed by the culture of college life: attending Welcome Week’s events after four hours of sleep wasn’t my usual morning walk to Bondi Beach. At first, I felt lost and out of place in a sea of American students.
Four weeks later, I walk to class and stop to say hi to familiar faces. I navigate campus without relying on Google Maps. And, as each day passes, I increasingly understand the way of life at Michigan.
If I could write my pre-Michigan self a letter, I would articulate the importance of detaching your own life from online archetypes. There is no ‘formula’ for the college experience. I couldn’t differ more from the typical Michigan student from the states, who applied directly out of high school, yet, I can’t imagine what my life would have been like had I not decided to sit down in seat 34A.
Comparison is the thief of joy. It's cliché, but remarkably true. To my past self who felt my life’s journey was nowhere near what I “planned”, I say let it all unfold naturally. Don’t resist uncertainty or force answers out of your story while it is still being written. Just like the Notebook affirms, “Nothing is ever lost, nor can be lost.” What is meant for you will arrive in its own time. I have begun illustrating Michigan’s section of my mural: the joys of the past four weeks and even the hard moments. Looking ahead at the next three years, I believe this painting will hang as the most vivid in my museum and its caption is only just starting to be written.
