Eight years ago I made the move from Edmonton, Alberta here to Vancouver. I had considered my recent experience living in Mexico more than sufficient preparation for a simple move across the provincial border.

I was wrong.

Despite having been born and raised in Canada, sharing a common language, cultural and social norms, and currency and food, my hopeful visions of a new home were soon replaced by disillusionment: Why don’t I have a job yet? What do you mean I can’t get my own doctor? And, why are there so many attractive people wearing ugly 80s glasses?

There are actually no lenses in those frames. Photo by Maria Ly, Flickr

In retrospect, I know my expectations were unrealistic, even naïve.

Even though in Mexico I had struggled with bats and cockroaches, blatant sexism, unreliable plumbing and, thanks to my rusty Spanish, a language barrier, I had a great job, made friends easily and enjoyed 358 days of ideal climate.

When I came to Vancouver I was a new mother starting from scratch. I was no longer single and independent with a great job and friends. I had new responsibilities and an entirely new set of personal challenges.

I spent the first year establishing childcare, looking for a job and living with my family in close quarters with no money. My self-worth deteriorated, and my worldview grew very bleak.

I cried. A lot.

It has taken me this long – yes, eight years – to begin to feel I have a new home, and I am not some alien creature stuck between dimensions.

I have come to realize that culture shock does not discriminate based on where you came from and how far you may have travelled. It doesn’t care if you speak the language or not or how prepared or unprepared you think you may be. It happens to us all.

And, thankfully, it doesn’t last forever.

After months and years in a new and distant place, we gradually find our footing and fall in step with the unique rhythm of our chosen home, whether it’s Vancouver, New Delhi or San Franciso.

The city’s vernacular, transportation and weather all become familiar. We discover our favourite cafes, find a job (finally!) and make new friends. We don’t even realize it when we begin to adopt the same city-specific complaints about housing, politics and weather.

Now, I look around at this city and marvel at its angles, colours, and voices. I complain about the bus, the smells and the driving, with a sense of gratitude, because I have survived worse and fought to create something better.

I look around at all of you that have travelled from great distances, suffered unimaginable loneliness, discrimination and pain to arrive here imagining a better life, and I am filled with admiration and compassion.

And when I am standing in line at my favourite café, and my turn to order comes, I smile at the tattooed barista.

She is wearing 80s glasses.