always between places

I unpacked my suitcase knowing I’d be packing it again soon. It wasn’t even a thought I needed to consciously form, it just sat there in the background as I placed things into drawers that didn’t quite feel like mine yet, in a space that still felt slightly unfamiliar no matter how many times I moved through it. There was a sense of temporary to everything, even though I was technically home, even though this was where I lived now. And already, part of me was thinking about the next time I’d leave.

This year hasn’t really had a clear stretch of being in one place. It started without me fully noticing it at first, just a few things shifting, one after the other. Late April last year, we lost Bobo, our final bunny. Not long before that, my husband had lost his job, and everything began to move around that, quietly at first, then more noticeably.

We decided to go to Italy for a month. It wasn’t planned in the way trips usually are, it felt more like something we needed to do, a break from everything that had just happened, a way to step out of the space we were in. I hadn’t travelled properly since losing Forrest back in 2022, and even though it was an emotionally heavy time, there was also a sense that my body needed something different, something that wasn’t tied to the same routine.

We came back, and things shifted again. About a month later, my husband got a job offer in Frankfurt. That set everything else in motion, packing up, travelling back and forth, trying to get a feel for a city that wasn’t yet familiar, finding an apartment, organising a move before we’d even fully settled back from being away.

Since moving, settling hasn’t really happened in the way I expected. There are still boxes, still things without a place, still a sense that everything is slightly in-between. We downsized, which sounds simple in theory. In reality, though, it means finding space for things that don’t quite fit, a cellar so full you can barely open the door, rooms that don’t fully hold what used to be spread out more easily. And alongside that, the movement continued.

My husband’s job involves some travel, not long stretches, just a few days here, a week there, enough to create space between us that we both need. Before that, when he was at home all the time after losing his job, it was something we both felt, the constant proximity, the lack of space to just be separate for a while.

At the same time, I started travelling more as well. I’ve always visited my parents a few times a year, usually for long weekends. Without needing to return to the bunnies, without that pull to stay close to home, and knowing my parents are in their mid-eighties now, those visits have become longer. A long weekend has turned into two and a half, sometimes three weeks at a time.

Then there’s Salzburg. I never changed my hairdresser. It sounds small, however, it gave me a reason to go back, to spend time there, to see friends I’d made, to return to a place that still feels familiar. The journey takes around eight and a half hours if everything runs smoothly, and I don’t mind it; I can read, work, watch something, sit quietly for a while.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, we’ve planned a three-week holiday to France.

When I step back and look at it, it’s a lot of movement in a relatively short space of time. Going from three short visits a year to spending weeks away, adding in trips to Salzburg, travelling with my husband, moving countries in between. It didn’t feel like a sudden decision to live like this. It’s just become how things are.

Moving from one place to another, adjusting to each environment as I arrived, knowing I wouldn’t be there long enough to fully settle before moving again. There’s a rhythm to it, even  it’s not one that gives you much space to stop. Even when I am in one place, it doesn’t fully feel like being there. Part of my mind is already moving ahead, thinking about the next trip, the next journey, the next place I’ll be. It’s like never quite arriving, even when you’ve unpacked, even when you’ve been there for a few days.

That kind of movement carries a certain tiredness. Not the kind that comes from doing too much in one day or not sleeping enough. It’s something quieter, something that builds over time. It doesn’t disappear with rest because it isn’t just physical, it’s in the constant adjusting, the shifting, the never quite landing anywhere long enough to fully relax into it.

There’s a lack of grounding in it. Not in a major way, just in small moments where you realise you don’t quite feel anchored to where you are, where everything feels slightly temporary, slightly in transition. You get used to new spaces quickly, even when you don’t stay long enough for them to feel like a base.

And that creates a subtle kind of disorientation. Nothing extreme, nothing that stops you functioning, just a sense of always being in-between, not fully here, not fully somewhere else either. It becomes normal after a while, something you adapt to without questioning it too much.

This isn’t only about travel. You can feel the same thing in any phase of life where things keep shifting, where you’re moving from one situation to another without a pause in between. Always adjusting, always adapting, always preparing for what’s next. You can be physically in one place and mentally somewhere else entirely. Already thinking ahead, already planning, already preparing to leave before you’ve fully arrived. It’s a strange place to be, where you don’t quite have a base to return to, even if you technically do.

Over time, that starts to take something out of you. Not in a way that demands attention, rather in a quieter way that shows up as a constant low-level fatigue, a sense that you haven’t fully switched off in a long time. It’s not something that gets resolved by stopping everything. Because the movement itself isn’t always the problem, it’s how you stay connected to yourself within it. Finding small ways to come back into your body, even briefly, can shift how it feels, creating moments of steadiness within something that’s otherwise always changing.

Sometimes that’s as simple as sitting still for a few minutes, noticing where you are without thinking about where you’re going next. Other times, it might be something more intentional, like a grounding meditation, something that helps you return to yourself when everything around you keeps moving. Or colour breathing to bring a sense of internal steadiness, even when your external environment doesn’t offer it.

It doesn’t stop the movement. However, it gives you somewhere to return to within it. Because the movement itself might continue. The next trip, the next place, the next period of being somewhere else. It all keeps coming. And you keep moving with it, adjusting, adapting, finding your way through each new environment as it arrives. Somewhere in the middle of that, though, there are small moments where you notice it: that sense of never quite settling, of always being on your way to somewhere else, even when you’re already there.