When you become an immigrant, you are perpetually falling between two stools, inhabiting a cultural gap that neither country can quite bridge.
I first came to Australia in 1999 on a working holiday visa, just in time for the Sydney Olympics and the New Year’s Eve fireworks at the Harbour Bridge at the turn of the century. The moment I stepped off the plane into the warm Sydney spring sunshine, I felt sure I would stay for a long time. Twenty-six years later, I am still here.
Despite being on a working holiday visa, I never really did the backpacker-in-Bondi thing. I settled down in Sydney’s Inner West area – where I still live today – built a career in journalism, travelled around the country when I could, and navigated the slow, bureaucratic climb from visa to residency to citizenship.
Soon after, two of my siblings moved here too, while my parents and sister remained in Ireland, effectively splitting the family tree across two hemispheres.
In your 20s, you don’t think about the repercussions of building a life 17,000km from home. It was only when my first child was born that the distance became a physical ache. It has not been easy raising children without their grandparents nearby – for any of us. Knowing what I know now, I’m not sure I would have made the decisions I have.
I love our life in Australia – we have a nice home, great careers, and the kids are very settled in their respective schools and friendship groups. We have had some epic adventures together, including a three-week road trip to Uluru when the children were small. I love living in the Inner West too – it’s very multicultural, with a big European community, amazing restaurants and beautiful parks, plus we are very close to the city. Yet I still miss Ireland every day.
We do our best to bridge the divide as most migrants do – regular texts, phone calls and Facetimes, but it’s not the same as being able to hug your loved ones whenever you want, or sit down for a cup or tea or go for a walk together – it’s the little everyday things I miss most.
My parents came out to Australia to visit quite often when the children were much younger, and were here when both my children were newborns, which was amazing. Now that they are older they still come to visit every few years, but we tend to visit them more frequently, and their grandchildren – all six of whom live here – are brilliant travellers, which makes it easier.
My parents have never pressured me into moving back to Ireland. I know everyone thinks their parents are the best, but mine truly are. The times we spend together are full of fun and laughter. We try to go home as often as possible, usually once a year if we can. I have gone back with my whole family, but sometimes go back on my own or just with the kids. It’s prohibitively expensive to travel as a family of four, especially now the kids are in their teens.
Nicola Conville: ‘I first came to Australia in 1999 on a working holiday visa, just in time for the Sydney Olympics and the New Year’s Eve fireworks at the Harbour Bridge at the turn of the century. Twenty-six years later, I am still here.’
One thing that has really surprised and delighted me is how proud my children are to be Irish. Despite having lived their entire lives in the Great Southern Land, they identify fiercely as being Irish. They love our visits back to Ireland, especially at Christmas when the cold air and frosty fields around my parents’ home in rural Wexford make it feel so magical. My daughter, now obsessed with Fontaines DC and Kneecap, knows her Irish history, and we have even signed up for Irish classes at the Gaelic Club in Sydney together.
As my parents get older, the two stools feel even further apart. The branches of our family tree have thinned, with my husband – who is Irish too – and I losing four very beloved uncles between us in as many years. These losses bring a certain urgency; I find myself wanting to spend more time in Ireland with our families, even as our lives remain firmly rooted here.
My children are beginning to think about their own horizons, one toward Ireland, and the other toward Japan. I know that whatever paths they choose in life, I will give them the same selfless support my parents gave me. While they are the centre of my world, I know I will not always be at the centre of theirs, but that’s the way it should be, hard as that is to accept sometimes. It is the heartbreaking reality of a globalised world: we raise our children to fly, even if it means they fly away from us.
Originally from Dublin, Nicola Conville is a journalist who has called Sydney’s Inner West home since 1999. She is currently perfecting her “cúpla focal” with her daughter at the Gaelic Club in Sydney.