I Know We Just Met, But Wanna Be BFFs?: What the Expat Sisterhood Has Taught Me About Making Friends

Making friends has historically been an area fraught with uncertainty for me.

They say that you carry your childhood scars with you, and I, like many of us, had my fair share of playground exclusion, unpredictable “I’m-not-your-best-friend-anymores”, and the disappointment after eagerly taking steps to befriend someone I thought was the bee’s knees only to realise that they already had a crew and weren’t looking to recruit.

I know that it’s a rite of passage for a lot of children, realistically and unfortunately. It is also something that probably shapes our characters, builds our emotional resilience and teaches us, albeit with a slight twist of cruelty, to reach out to the kid on the playground who sits alone.

I would be lying if I said that this experience didn’t affect my adult friendships. But in the last few years, specifically, during this 6-year expat stint and the challenges and joys that come with it, my views on friendship have changed in a way I never would have expected. And now that it looks like our expat adventure is coming to a close, I’ve been reflecting on just how much has changed for me.

We held a birthday party for my brand new two-year-old yesterday. After the flurry of departing guests, thrown out paper plates, collected chocolate cake crumbs and scrunched up balls of wrapping paper that had been gleefully torn open with eager hands (times two, thanks to the older sister’s desire to “help”), my husband put the girls to bed while I settled into my favourite spot on the couch and sent out thank-yous to the people who had come and celebrated with us.

Although I was exhausted, I felt an overwhelming sense of well-being descend upon me.

I’m unbelievably lucky to have found these friends,” the thought kept repeating itself in my head.

And it’s true. Now, in my thirties, I have never felt more content in my relationships thanks to the meaningful and genuine friendships this phase of life has gifted me.

If I’m being honest, I don’t know if I would’ve had the same attitude to friendship if we had never left our home and searched abroad for a different kind of life.

I don’t know if I would have just as easily learned that when you are so firmly thrust out of your comfort zone, you will find yourself turning to other women, living similar lives in parallel, for comfort.

I don’t know if I would have said “yes” to as many invitations to playgroups, coffee mornings, Facebook groups, or girls nights out, because I quickly learned that what truly makes living this expat life, in this home away from home, are the people with whom you spend that time and the connections you build.

I don’t know if I would have learned that some of the most extraordinary women you would ever meet would be the ones who put themselves on the line —or in my case, put themselves out along the dairy aisle at the supermarket— and struck up a conversation about where the best place was to find goat’s cheese. It could be the woman to whom you’re introduced by a mutual friend, and you oblige out of courtesy, but then realise within moments that you may have found a soul sister.

I don’t know if I would have believed that I could pour out my heart to someone while she poured me a hot cup of coffee, even though it’s my first time in her home, and we’ve technically only met two and a half times.

It could be the woman who offers a gentle hint of a smile at preschool pick-up, and you chit chat because you’ve seen each other there at least a handful of times and it seems rude not to, and before you know it you’re inviting each other over to your homes and sharing your lives and hearts in a way you never thought you would with someone you met in such a humdrum setting.

It could be the woman who seems so completely different to you, because she is almost intimidatingly self-assured and knowledgeable about how things go in this place that is so new and so foreign, so how could you possibly ever be friends, but that the truth is, in fact, she has been exactly where you are and knows the emotional and mental whirlwind racing through your head right now. She has been there. She knows. And she’s paying it forward because someone extended —or maybe because no one extended— that same kindness to her once upon a time.

Where I typically would have been timid and reluctant, or politely declined in favour of sticking to what was familiar and carried no risk of rejection or merely incompatibility, I’ve learned that with almost everyone —everyone— once we show each other our real, raw, sometimes uncomfortable humanity, you can find a friend. You can be a friend.

The added bonus of being an expat is that you almost immediately have one baseline thing in common: you’re away from your family, your familiarity, and whether you care to admit it or not, you need people. You need other people. You especially need other people who understand the nuances of what it really means to be living away from home. There are challenges that, if you were to share them with family or friends back home, might elicit eye-rolls or mocking “poor you” looks accompanied by chuckles or reminders that you should be grateful for all the unique things being an expat allows you to experience.

For me, being someone for whom new friendships occasionally felt like a treacherous minefield I’d rather not navigate, the most important thing the expat sisterhood has taught me is the value of being bold, of allowing people to access the real, vulnerable “you” sooner rather than later.

Often, your time to get to know each other is limited, and there’s a silent, lurking threat of someone having to move away at any given point in time, so we realise that we need to delve into the relationship, to absorb all the goodness in each other, and go all in.

I’ve learned to go all in.

And you know what? Sometimes, you don’t necessarily click. You don’t have that much in common, or your personalities simply just don’t gel. Or you drift apart. Or you drop out of touch when you’re no longer living in the same country, or life just happens and you each move on. Sometimes it slows down to occasional emails or messages, or a brief interaction on social media, or, in some cases, the closing of a friendship chapter. It’s a part of life, of friendship, of being a human being and of learning about our connections with other humans.

But there was a time when the possibility of those things was enough for me not to even want to dip my toe in the water. And if I hadn’t learned to just dive in sometimes, I wouldn’t have been rewarded, as I have been now, with the women who I am not only privileged, but so, very grateful, to call, my friends.

I hope every single one of you knows who you are. And if you’re sitting there wondering, is she talking about me? Yes. I am. Thank you for your friendship, sister: however that looks or looked, however long it lasted, or however long it may continue. My hope is that it does continue, and for a long, long time.

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I Won’t Tell You That You’re a Good Mother

I’m not going to tell you that you’re a good mother.

I won’t even tell you that you’re doing a good job.

Because when I do, you’re going to think back to this morning when your toddler threw that sticky clump of oatmeal at you, and you snapped. You just snapped. She’s small. She’s frustrated. You’re the adult here. But you didn’t recognise your voice as the anger and helplessness rumbled in the pit of your stomach and you growled furiously at her. You didn’t feel like a good mother then.

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What Does Your Husband Do?: The Secret Identity of the Expat Wife

Of all the questions a modern woman expects to be asked when meeting someone for the first time, “So, what does your husband do?” is not one that would’ve been on my radar. In fact, it would have grievously offended my pre-expat-wife self.

What do you mean, what does my husband do? How is that relevant to who I am as an individual? How does his career, his role, his position – define me? 

And yet, after expat-wifing for 5 years now, it’s a question that no longer causes me to bat an eyelid. In fact, after being asked my name, my kids’ ages, where we live, my often-spoken, almost pre-rehearsed line about his position at X company dances at the tip of my tongue, waiting for its inevitable release.

I am a dependant. I am someone else’s Plus One. I am so-and-so’s wife or so-and-so’s mother. The homemaker, the baby-caretaker, the healthy-toddler-muffin-baker.

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Don’t Let Me Forget Their Littleness

Here I sit, between them on my bed, the toddler on my left and the baby on my right. They’re fast asleep, peacefully dreaming of the things little ones dream about. If I listen closely, I can hear their steady, soft breaths, and see their little chests rising and falling almost in unison. In this still, quiet moment, I beg the universe:

Don’t let me forget.


Don’t let me forget the way her fine, silky baby hairs tickle the tip of my nose as I breathe in her perfection, or the way she giggles as I bury my head into the cushiony folds of her chubby neck. She smells like milk, soap, and baby powder, even though I didn’t put any baby powder on her. She smells like love and hope and some magical, mysterious ingredient that only babies possess. Continue reading

Hey Sleep-Deprived Mama, Take Yourself Out On a Date

If you’re a sleep-deprived mama that stays up late for no reason, I get you.

No, really. I get you.

I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that at one point, someone has said to you: Okay, you’re sleep deprived – it’s essentially all you ever talk about, so why are you still up now that the kids are in bed?

My very logical, rational husband doesn’t understand why, despite the fact that I haven’t slept for longer than a two-hour stretch over the past couple of months, I still stay up well past the kids’ bedtime. You say you want ‘me-time’ – but isn’t sleep the ultimate ‘me-time’? he asked me once.

Before I had kids, the concept of ‘me-time’ was pretty stock standard. I’d take the full hour lunch break at work and walk through the shops with no agenda whatsoever. On the weekend, I’d set off to the gym on my own for an hour and then stop by my favourite cafe and grab a cappuccino. Sometimes I’d get more than one bout of ‘me-time’ in one day. It was great.

Me and myself had the perfect amount of quality time together.

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I’m Done Waiting To Lose Weight

We finally got some professional family photographs taken last weekend. Truthfully, I’d been putting this off over and over again because I wanted to wait until I’d lost the baby weight after having #2 so that I could look somewhat presentable in these photos and not have to look back, 5 or 10 years later, and cringe at myself.

But recently, a light switched on in my head and made me think to myself: you know what? I’m done waiting to lose weight.

I’m done.

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To the New Mother of Two

One of my very best friends had her second baby just over two weeks ago. And while I’m by no means anywhere close to a seasoned mother of two, it’s amazing what two extra months can teach you.

I’ve found that those that have been through it tend to focus on how things will get easier in the long-term. Just get through the first year, and it’ll all start to fall into place. Yes, it’s a small age gap, but you’ll so appreciate what good friends they’ll be when they’re older! 

That’s all well and good, but for me – I needed to hear that things would get easier, or at least that I would get better at them, soon. Like, really soon. As in, tomorrow. Next week. In two weeks. Maybe in a month or two, max. I needed someone to tell me that there was a light just around the corner, and to reassure me that I wasn’t far off. Continue reading

I Need My Mama Tribe

I need my mama tribe.

I remember when I first became a mother, and someone asked me if I’d made any “mommy friends” yet. I brushed it off with a casual, “ah yeah – I have a couple, I guess,” and didn’t give it much more thought.
I didn’t know that the small handful of mommy friends I had at the start, which has now grown into a sisterhood of women that support, love and encourage each other, would become my strength and my sanity on my most difficult days.

Have you found your mama tribe? I hope you have. Whether it’s just the two of you or twenty of you; we need our mama tribes.

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Oh, how we need our mama tribes.

Because you need that mama who knows how sleep deprivation can turn you into a scary and unfamiliar version of yourself, and will ask you – no – TELL you that it’s time to go get caffeinated together, kids in tow to terrorise fellow cafe patrons, matching messy buns so that together you can both get through the rest of your day without eating your young.

Because you need that mama with whom “workout chic” or “pyjama vogue” is always an acceptable dress code. Let’s just agree to turn up in gym clothes so that we can appear to society to have just completed an arduous boot camp session, when really we’re going to go devour cinnamon rolls together and complain about our achy backs, you’ll say to each other.

She’s the one that you don’t have to dress up for, put mascara on for, or even brush your teeth for. And she’ll still want to hang out with you and your raw, un-hairsprayed gorgeousness anyway.

Because you need that mama to talk to about poo for half an hour. You’ll send each other pictures of the contents of your kids’ diapers to get a second opinion as to whether those are chunks of undigested watermelon or something more untoward; she’ll get as disproportionately excited as you when you tell her your toddler is no longer constipated; and you’ll lament your potty training woes with one another.

Because sometimes you need to turn up to a play date with your mama tribe, knowing in advance that the likelihood of you breaking down and crying is approximately 99.7%, because things have just been that difficult lately. So you soldier on through your morning with your kids, counting down until 3.00pm, but once you’re finally with your tribe, you hand someone your crying baby and someone else preoccupies your toddler while you open your heart, cry, get hugged and feel heard.

Somehow, you walk out of that play date feeling like superwoman, because they’ve told you how you’ve got this, but more importantly, you’ve got them and they’re here for you.

There’s that mama that has seen you at your worst, and doesn’t judge you or think less of you. She’s seen you lose your patience with your toddler. She’s seen you shamelessly bribe them so you can just have a couple of minutes to yourself. She’s been there with you when you’ve clumsily tried to detonate a tantrum and then tells you afterwards what a great job you did; how you did everything right and that you’re a wonderful mother.

Because we doubt that we really are wonderful mothers, don’t we? Motherhood can be such an isolating experience sometimes, and you can feel like everyone else has is so completely together, except you. It’s so easy to feel guilty, helpless, overwhelmed, and frustrated. And then these incredible women, these sisters you didn’t know you had, will step in and remind you that we’re all going through it. Everyone struggles sometimes and no one really has it all together. Despite having their own things to deal with, they’ll drop them and do what they can to give you what you need.

I need my mama tribe. I’ve been thinking about every single member of my mama tribe lately, and how so very lucky I am to have found them. Thank you for sending that text message exactly when I needed to hear those words. Thank you for pre-emptively telling me I shouldn’t feel guilty about something you KNOW I’ll feel guilty about. Thank you for bringing me food, laughter and company while I was housebound recovering from a C-section. Thank you for loving my babies the way you love your own, and for just stepping in and making things easier without being asked. Thank you for *just knowing* what I need in a certain moment, because hey, you’ve probably been there too.

We need our mama tribes. I need mine. You need yours. We all need each other. Ladies, you know who you are <3.

Today, You are 2

Tuna,

Today, you turn two years old.

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It’s been exactly two years since that day we met in that freezing operating theatre. I lay there, with your Papa standing in his chalk blue scrubs by my side, when, although numb from the waist down, I felt the exact moment they took you out and you took your first breath. Your first cry was moments later. And although it felt like an eternity at the time, in a couple of minutes they had wrapped you up in blankets and placed you in my arms.

In those early moments with you, one of the thoughts that kept crossing my mind was that at one point, I thought I’d never get to meet you. Continue reading

Love is Sweatpants and Take-out, Actually

In case the marketing everywhere miraculously hasn’t reached you yet, it’s Valentine’s Day this weekend.

And maybe you’re like me.

I grew up watching Disney movies and rom-coms. Prince Charming, happily ever after, adorable meet-cutes, gigantic, suspenseful, highly emotional grand gestures, perfect lines in the perfect moment, so on, so forth, et cetera. Ah, that warm fuzzy feeling. That whole, “oh-my-gosh-that-perfect-guy-is-so-perfect!”. That sense of hope that one day, you might have someone bulldoze through crowds of people at a busy international airport to stop you from getting on that plane so that he can perform a heartbreakingly beautiful soliloquy about why you two belong together. Sigh.

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