So I did it again. I decided to move across the world. On June 8th I landed in Mexico, quite sadly to torrential rain, the exact same weather that had delayed me for two hours back in Heathrow.
This was all because last Christmas I decided to follow my Mexican boyfriend back to his homeland. He’d had to move back after 4 years of university study in England as his student visa expired. I spent January to April looking for a job in Mexico City and getting ready to leave England for good. After countless applications, an email landed in my inbox from someone who had been given my CV, we set up some interviews, I did some sample work and I was offered a position. I handed in my notice at my job in the City of London and less than two months later, I boarded a plane with a one way ticket. Many of my colleagues seemed to think I was insane for leaving a City job to move to Mexico. Friends and family thought it was a brave decision. I’d like to believe it’s a bit of both.
Over the course of my first day here, I noticed I had trouble breathing. At first, I thought it was due to sheer panic. I’m not the kind of person that stresses months in advance about things. Take exams for example. I can sit and study quite calmly for weeks and weeks, but the night before the exam or a few hours before, panic will suddenly set in. So when people were asking me how excited or nervous I was about moving, I didn’t have much to say because that’s not how I function. However on day one when I couldn’t breathe, I thought I was having some kind of a panic attack. The sensation of breathing without really taking in any air continued through my first night and my second day and I thought I was stressing about what I’d done. And then I remembered. Mexico City is one of the highest capital cities in the world, sitting at over 2200m above sea level. I wasn’t freaking out, just getting used to the altitude. Silly me.