Home Sickness when Living in France

I didn’t expect homesickness to come in two directions.

When I first moved to France, everything felt cinematic. The early mornings with the smell of fresh bread drifting out of boulangeries, long lunches that somehow stretched into late afternoons, the quiet hum of life that felt slower, more intentional. It was beautiful—but it was also lonely in a way I hadn’t quite prepared for.

Because while I was learning how to order coffee properly and pretending I understood half the conversations around me, my family was still back in the UK, living their normal lives without me.

And that’s the strange part. Life doesn’t pause just because you’ve moved countries. Birthdays still happen, Sunday dinners still get cooked, inside jokes keep evolving. You just… watch it all from a distance.

I missed the easy things most. Dropping by without notice. Familiar accents. The kind of conversations where you don’t have to think before you speak. In France, even on good days, everything required a bit more effort—more language, more patience, more explaining yourself.

But then something shifted.

France stopped feeling like a place I was visiting and started feeling like a place I was living. I found my routines. My favourite café. The park bench where I’d sit longer than I planned. I got used to greeting people with a “bonjour” before anything else, to taking time over meals instead of rushing through them. Life softened.

And without realising it, I built a second version of “home.”

Which is where things get complicated.

Because every time I go back to the UK, it’s exactly what I miss… and not at all what I’m used to anymore.

Being back with family is everything I crave when I’m away. It’s loud and familiar and effortless. I can fully relax in a way I didn’t even realise I missed. There’s comfort in knowing exactly how things work, where everything is, who you are in that space.

But then, after a few days, I start to feel it.

The pace feels faster. Meals feel shorter. People seem to move with urgency, like time is always slightly slipping away. I catch myself missing the drawn-out dinners in France, the way a simple coffee can turn into an hour, the quiet rhythm of everyday life there.

And just like that, I’m homesick again—this time for France.

It’s a strange in-between place to live in. You’re always leaving something behind, no matter where you are. When I’m in France, I miss my family. When I’m in the UK, I miss the life I built in France.

For a while, I thought maybe this meant I didn’t fully belong anywhere. But I’ve started to see it differently.

Maybe it just means I’ve been lucky enough to build connections strong enough in two places that leaving either one hurts a little.

And honestly, I think I’ll always feel that pull now. That quiet tug between two versions of home.

It’s not comfortable, but it’s not entirely a bad thing either.

It just means my world got bigger.