Yesterday marked two years since I moved to Ireland. I almost hadn’t realized until a memory popped up in my photos: my going-away party in D.C. that my friends threw me just before I left. Or more relevantly, the video I recorded the morning after, watery-eyed and with the last night’s makeup running down my face, to thank them.
In the video, I confessed that my only regret was not giving a speech (and maybe those last two or three drinks). This was an amateur mistake —not just because I passed up one last chance to soak in the spotlight, but also because I missed my favorite pastime: showering my friends with compliments. So I made up for it by sending them a video, thanking them for the night, the last four years, and the years of friendship to come, as this wouldn’t be the last they’d see of me.
What strikes me now is remembering exactly how I felt making that video: overwhelmed with joy and sadness, but mostly fear. Fear that I’d never find another community as good as the one I had. Fear of leaving such a beautiful bubble.
Because it was just that—a bubble. I had been surrounded by people with whom I could be my truest, most comfortable self. And while I loved them deeply (and still do), part of me knew I had to leave if I wanted to grow in ways I hadn’t yet.
Up until then, I had never lived anywhere my sisters hadn’t gone first. I love being “Little Partika,” but I always had their communities to fall back on when mine fell short. In high school, Abbey let me tag along with her friends. In college, Annie’s friend Amy took me under her wing, and Abbey’s friends were practically begging me to let them buy me alcohol.
Moving to D.C. was the obvious next step—not because I loved the city (I didn’t at the time), but because my roommate and best friend was moving there, and my sisters were already settled. Why not live in the same city as the three people I was closest to?
And I did carve out my own path there. Especially after one of my sisters moved away and Covid ended, I found myself in a tight-knit group (the same ones who got that video). We came together partly by chance, partly by overlapping connections, until one day it felt like we were solid. That group is still evolving as people come and go.
But even then, I always had my sisters nearby as a safety net. I’m grateful for that, but something inside me wanted to go somewhere neither of them had, completely on my own.
So I did.
People often say they’re proud of me for moving so far away when I didn’t know anyone, or how brave I was to do so. But I’m not really. I was terrified. That day after my going-away party, I felt completely spun around, questioning whether I’d made a huge mistake.
Everyone told me I’d be fine, pointing out how easily I make friends. But having my sisters as a safety net had always made building community low-stakes. Without that net, I realized friendship was suddenly on me entirely. Those compliments about bravery felt irrelevant because I placed so much less credit on myself than I deserved. Until I moved, that is.
Now, two years later, I can say I’m better for it. I’ve built a real base of community here, and it wasn’t easy.
I’ve misread people’s character, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. I’ve been too trusting, putting my faith in the wrong people as often as the right ones. I’ve pushed myself to pursue deeper connections, even when it meant following up after someone didn’t text back—because usually, it wasn’t intentional. I’ve spent countless hours over coffee, because anyone can overshare over drinks, but only real friends overshare over coffee.
So now, in the last couple of months as I geared up to move to Dublin, when people referred to me being able to make friends on my own, I’d just nod and agree. I don’t think this is something that only became true after I moved to Ireland, but moving here helped me realize it had been true all along. That safety net? It was just that—a safety net.
And that fear I had? It was, as people had said, bravery. So lean into that fear. Be the person you’ve always been, but give yourself the chance to see yourself the way others already do.