I have in the last couple of days attended my second funeral in quick succession — another of my ex-boyfriend's relatives has died. As I stood in the same church from a couple of months ago, it dawned on me how I don't have any memories of doing the same for members of my own family. And this is the price you pay for living away for most of your life.
Of course I don't want to attend anyone's funeral — that's not what I'm saying. But my best friend got married and I didn't go. My grandparents all died, and I didn't attend a single funeral. My life abroad means I'm so often not there for these crucial family moments.
The life of an expat
Sometimes this lifestyle takes its toll. It weighs heavily and feels selfish. I remember talking to my cousins who lived next door to my grandmother when she died. My cousin said how sorry she felt for me that I wasn't there to say goodbye, but I told her that her whole life and routine would now be completely different — while my life would continue exactly as before. Absolutely nothing would change, just a phone call once every couple of weeks that I could no longer have. I felt bad — bad for them, for me, for an impossible situation that had no remedy.
Then something really unexpected happened in my family. Another cousin, who was 42 years old, died suddenly, outlived by both of his parents and his brother and sister. He was the little one in the family, and he was gone. His mum was a dear aunt to me, someone I truly loved as a child, with whom I had little contact in the years I lived away. I would see her when I was visiting home, but had no real contact while I was living my life in faraway lands.
I remember having a little talk to myself about this, understanding that this was not ok and it was needless. I made a point of calling her on a regular basis, and this turned out to be a wonderful decision. My aunt, who had just lost her youngest child, would not only make me laugh every time I called her, but would share amazing stories about the family and fill me in on all the gossip, to the point that I became the go-to person for info on that side of the family.
Her life story was so hard and so sad, the things she told me impacted me more than I ever imagined — all because I decided to pick up a phone every week and call her instead of sitting watching TV or scrolling on my phone.
This got me going. I called other relatives. I learned so much from them all. You forget that older people know so much more than us — they've been around, they've seen it all. They're not dear old ladies sitting knitting. They are full humans, with interesting pasts and political views, people who have the time to give you love and attention, who take the time to talk to you and really listen, like few people do.
A price to pay
Rio de Janeiro from a plane. This view always brings it all back.
Of course there is a price for this faraway closeness. My aunt inevitably died, and I of course never made it to the funeral — my life in Florence didn't allow me to. But I had seen her not long before she died, and I had seen how our phone relationship translated into a wonderful, friendly rapport. When we were together, we had hours of phone calls to fall back on. We had built a really good and close relationship, even though we hardly ever saw each other.
The flip side is that her death hurt much more than it would have, had she been a distant aunt I only remembered from childhood. But then all the things she taught me over the phone would never have been said. The size of your grief is the biggest measure of love — I can never regret loving my family.
When I first moved to the UK as a teenager, I had a recurring dream. I could get on a boat, or a quick train ride, and I'd be in Brazil. In this dream, my physical distance to Brazil was imaginary. I would always say, "I wish I had known Brazil was this close to England — I would have always gone on the weekends." I would wake up super sad that I couldn't just go to my grandmother's house. Looking back now, I understand what my dreams were trying to tell me: I never really left. Brazil was close by — I just couldn't see it. My relatives were a phone call away.
The joy of today
Nowadays we have Zoom calls and WhatsApp. We can take a photo in Paris and see it in Rio the next second. One of my best and dearest friends is someone I have met physically twice in my life. We first met in Amsterdam, then again in San Francisco, and she now lives in Texas. I attended her wedding virtually during the pandemic, watched her pregnancy, and now see her boy grow up with weekly — sometimes daily — updates.
Rio airport as you arrive. No matter how many years pass, this feeling never changes.
Is it sad that I didn't attend all these funerals and didn't go to so many weddings, didn't see so many pregnancies and births? Yes, of course. But it's a choice. The legacy we have been left after Covid lockdowns is a life where it's perfectly acceptable to attend a wedding on Zoom, to have a birthday party with friends on the other side of the world.
Nothing beats a big hug from your friend, or an actual walk by the beach with a loved one. But sometimes our choices mean we need to adapt and decide to make the best out of our situation, and count our lucky stars that now we have so many tools that keep us close even when we're far away.
When the hurt needs space
What I've come to understand — both personally and through my work as a counsellor — is that expat grief is real, even when it doesn't look like grief in the traditional sense. It's the accumulation of missed moments, the guilt of not being there, the strange feeling that life back home moves on without you and your life moves on without them.
Most expats carry this quietly. We tell ourselves it's the price of the life we chose, and we push through. But sometimes that weight builds up — the family separation across generations, the loss of who you used to be, the loneliness of being the one who followed. These losses layer on top of each other, and they deserve to be acknowledged.
If the distance is weighing on you more than usual, or if a loss — recent or old — is surfacing in ways you didn't expect, talking to someone who understands this life from the inside can help you make sense of it.