I’ve never been one to get homesick, then again, I’ve never been this far from home. I was born and raised in the small fishing town of Scituate Massachusetts, just forty five minutes south of Boston. My house is less than a thirty second walk from one of five beaches in our town, so I grew up watching the sunset behind the Light House, falling asleep to the sound of crashing waves, and referring to the Harbor as ‘downtown’. I’ve had the same group of best friends since primary school and live within a five minute drive from the majority of them. On top of that, all sixteen of my first cousins, as well as my aunties and uncles, live in Scituate. We’ve grown up spending holidays together, going to the same schools, and celebrating important milestones as a family. The Brady Bunch, all fifty or more of us, have become a fixture in our sleepy little seaside town, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I went off to College in another state that was only a three hour drive away. Playing basketball meant that my parents were at my games almost every weekend for six months out of the year, and I was able to shoot home for holidays and long weekends. Sure, being outside of Massachusetts where most of my friends were attending University could be difficult at times, but we always kept in touch and picked up right where we left off. So, long story short, while I’ve never considered myself someone who gets homesick, I’ve never really known true distance from the people and places that define who I am.
According to Google maps, I am currently 2,980 miles away from home. What appears as nothing more than a stone’s throw across the North Atlantic Ocean on my iPhone is actually the greatest distance I’ve ever known, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t felt those miles occasionally since being in Ireland. For the first time in my life, I’m not able bike or walk over to my best friend Haley’s house to see if she’s home (yes we still do this), or drive and pick up Megan and Tori to go get an ICED coffee from Marylou’s. I’m not able to head home on Sunday night for a home cooked meal made by my mom, or lounge on the couch watching the Big Bang Theory with my Dad and my dog Pedro while we catch up on life’s latest events. I won’t be there for my brother Christian’s 21st birthday, and I won’t be able to see my brother Dylan’s first collegiate football game. I missed my cousin’s wedding in September, and I will soon miss my very first Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. When you lay it all out like this, it sounds pretty grim, and it feels like I’m missing a lot. But I’ve found that when I feel these pangs of FOMO (fear of missing out), I must simply adjust my mind set.
At this point in my existence, I’ve experienced twenty three Birthday celebrations, Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving dinners, and Easter masses, with my family and friends back home in the states. I’ve never been apart from this core group of people for more than a few months, if that, at a time. On the contrary, I have yet to experience a Thanksgiving in Belfast, a Christmas in Prague, or a New Years Eve in Budapest, all of which I will be experiencing this year. I recognize that my homesickness stems from a life of relative routine and comfort and there is nothing wrong with that. My family and friends bring me more happiness than anything else in this life. Nevertheless, I do not consider myself a creature of habit. I thrive in change, adventure, challenge, and the unknown. When I go for a swim in the ocean I am not the person who wades in inch by inch adjusting to how freezing the water is, I am the one who dives in head first. I knew when I accepted this amazing opportunity it would mean reaching outside of my comfort zone and facing some occasional low points, but that’s what excited me the most about it. I will be able to cherish beach days in Scituate, movie marathons with my family, and nights out in Boston with my friends for years to come, but I will never re-live this year in Ireland. I’m old enough to understand how invaluable and brief this experience truly is. In the blink of an eye I’ll be boarding a plane back to Logan Airport and wondering where the time went. So, I must cherish every ‘first’ that I’m able to check off my bucket list while I’m here.
Yes, I feel homesick, but no, I don’t want to go home. Not yet at least. Ireland has been my greatest adventure thus far in life and I’ve only been here two months. I’m committed to making the most of this journey for the next seven months so that when I arrive home I feel fulfillment rather than regret. In the meantime, when I do feel homesick, I’ve found ways of coping with it; Sunday night football and wings at The Woolshed with Kenz, Saturday drives listening to music and grabbing coffee with my classmates, game days and nights out with my new Meteors family, and laughing and catching up with the other Victory Scholars who are in the exact same boat as I am. I can’t wait for the day when I’m sitting on my couch back in Scituate and find myself homesick for Trinity, and Dublin, and Ireland, and all of the people I’ve met here. In that respect, homesicknesses is really the best kind of sickness, or in the words of Miriam Adeney, “the price you pay for the richness of knowing and loving people in more than one place.” I’d pay that price any day.
With Love,
Shannon
