Eight Years Later: Expat, Immigrant, or Just Stuck in the Middle?

Eight years ago to this very day, I made what felt like a slightly reckless decision. I packed up my life in England — along with my five-year-old daughter. No fancy moving companies, literally just 7 holdalls, mainly packed with dolls, teddy bears, a scooter and a dolls pram, life essentials with a little one, and we hopped on a plane to Spain.

The mission? As most of you know, was to see if a sunnier, drier climate could help cure my daughter's severe psoriasis. The plan was to give it a year, see if the sun worked its magic, and then if not... well, the idea was to come back.

Yet here we are, eight years later, still in Spain, still living our "temporary" adventure. And somewhere along the way, I’ve found myself caught up in an existential debate that I never quite anticipated: at what point does an “expat” become something else? Is "expat" just a polite word for someone who’s been in a place for too long to be considered a tourist but not quite long enough to blend in?

Expat vs. Immigrant: What’s in a Name?

Let's talk about the elephant in the room — the word “expat.” It rolls off the tongue with a certain elegance, doesn’t it? When you hear "expat," you might picture someone wearing white linen, sipping cocktails by the pool, maybe with a little straw hat for good measure. But when does one stop being an expat and start being an immigrant? Is it time-bound? Is it about the degree of assimilation? Or is it just about which side of the privilege divide you’re on?

For some reason, “expat” seems to have an air of luxury about it. “Immigrant,” on the other hand, feels loaded with the weight of effort, grit, and the determination to start anew. It’s funny, really. I mean, here I am, almost fluent in Spanish, trying to fit into a system that sometimes feels like it’s set up just to confuse me (ever tried to sort out paperwork in a foreign country?), and navigating cultural differences that can feel as vast as the Atlantic. But still, people call me an expat, not an immigrant. Is it because I come from a wealthy Western country, because I came here with a plan to stay temporarily, or simply because I still stubbornly refuse to accept dinner starting at 10 PM?

England: Home Sweet... No Longer Home?

You see, here’s the thing: England, the place I left eight years ago, doesn’t feel like home anymore. Oh sure, it’s familiar, like an old pair of shoes that still fit but just don’t feel quite right. When I go back, I recognise the landscape, the quirks, the humour, the queues (oh, how I miss a good orderly queue), but something’s shifted. It doesn’t quite fit me the way it used to. I’ve changed. The England I knew has changed, too.

It’s strange, really, how the familiar can start to feel foreign when you’ve been away for a while. The first time I went back after moving to Spain, I had a near existential crisis in the supermarket aisle. I stood there, surrounded by an overwhelming number of breakfast cereals, and felt like a stranger in a place that was once my own. Why so many choices? Why so much packaging? Why is everything suddenly so… gray?

But more than just the cereal conundrum, there’s a feeling I can’t quite shake off. England doesn’t feel like my life anymore. It feels like a place I used to know, a place that formed a part of me but no longer defines me. It’s still where I’m from, but it’s not really where I belong.

Spain: Home, but Not Quite Home

Spain, on the other hand, is where I wake up every day, where my daughter goes to school, where I’ve made friends, built a career, and learned to live in the moment a bit more (because, honestly, ma?ana culture has a way of seeping into your bones). It’s the place that has welcomed me, even if I’ll never quite be one of them. I’ve adopted parts of it, and it has, in its own way, adopted me.

Yet, it’s not quite home either, is it? I mean, while my Spanish is good, I still stumble over the Catalan on a daily basis, and my attempts to hide my english accent have, at best, been described as “charming.” I have learned to laugh at myself, especially when I slip up with little things like ordering something unexpected at a restaurant or greeting someone just a tad too early with “Buenas noches” when it’s clearly still “Buenas tardes.” (Yes, there’s an actual window for when one transitions to the other, and trust me, it’s taken me a while to get it right!) Even with near fluency, the nuances of language and timing can still keep me on my toes, but that's all part of the fun.

Don’t get me wrong; I love Spain. I love the late-night dinners that are more about community than eating. I love the spontaneous dancing in the streets during festivals, the open plazas where life spills out, and the sunshine that feels like a warm hug. But sometimes, I still feel like I’m just visiting a very long holiday.

And so, I’m in this in-between space. Not quite English, not quite Spanish, but something else. Something that doesn’t fit neatly into a box or label. Something that is both and neither, all at once.

The Culture Clash: Lost in Translation

Navigating life in Spain has been an adventure in and of itself. The language barrier, for one, has given me more laughs (and occasional moments of despair) than I can count. When we first arrived, my Spanish was limited to the basics: “Hola,” “Gracias,” and “Dos cervezas, por favor.” As you can imagine, this wasn’t particularly useful when dealing with the intricacies of Spanish bureaucracy or trying to explain to a teacher that my daughter, who’s usually full of confidence and energy, was just navigating the challenges of a new language and culture

And then there are the cultural differences — the little things that you never think about until they hit you in the face. Like the fact that Spaniards are wonderfully direct; there’s no sugar-coating here. If they think you’re doing something wrong, they’ll tell you. If they think you look tired, they’ll ask if you’re feeling alright — repeatedly. At first, I thought everyone was just being overly critical, but now I realise it's just a sign of care. They’re invested in you, in your well-being, in your life. It’s both endearing and mildly terrifying.

Somewhere in the Middle: Embracing the In-Between

So, where does that leave me? Somewhere in the middle, I suppose.

I’m not quite a tourist, not quite a local, not quite an expat, and maybe not quite an immigrant either. I’m just me, living in this space that doesn’t have a clear name or definition. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s more than okay — maybe it’s wonderful.

Being in this in-between space has taught me a lot. It’s taught me to be flexible, to embrace uncertainty, and to find joy in the unexpected. I’ve learned to appreciate the little things — the smile from a neighbour who’s finally stopped asking when I’m going back, the local café where they know my order, the fact that I can now follow a conversation in rapid-fire Spanish without feeling like my brain is about to explode.

I’ve come to realise that home isn’t necessarily a place. It’s a feeling, a state of mind. It’s where you feel comfortable, where you feel connected, where you feel alive. And for now, Spain is that place for me, even if it doesn’t always make perfect sense.

So, What’s Next?

Will I be here for another eight years? Who knows! If there’s anything this adventure has taught me, it’s that life doesn’t always go to plan — and that’s often where the magic happens. I’ve stopped trying to label myself, to put myself in a box that doesn’t quite fit. Instead, I’m learning to enjoy the journey, to embrace the contradictions, and to find beauty in the middle ground.

I don’t have all the answers, and I’m okay with that. I’m just figuring it out as I go, one day at a time, one mispronounced word at a time. And maybe that’s the best way to be.

To all of you out there living in the in-between, whatever that looks like for you — whether you’re an expat, an immigrant, a nomad, or just a dreamer — I hope you find joy in the journey. I hope you find peace in the uncertainty. And I hope you learn to love the middle ground as much as I have.

As for me, I’m off to enjoy another late-night dinner that will inevitably start with tapas and end with dancing. Because why not? Life is too short to worry about labels. Here’s to another eight years — or maybe more.

And just in case you’re wondering, yes, the sun really did help my daughter’s skin. But we’re staying for much more than just that now.

We’re staying for the laughter, the light, the lessons, and all the wonderful things that come from living somewhere in the middle.