Emma Pallent  packed  her  my  life  on  an  impulse  and moved  to Hong Kong; here are the reflections  of  a  graduate  trying to  figure it out.

Moving to Hong Kong was the most reckless decision I’ve made to date. Arguably, since I had just graduated from university, there had not been much wiggle room for drastic error up until that point. Sheltered in the cosiness of the UK education system,  I was never far away from family, friends, or a reliable mentor ready to give me advice. All this changed when  I left my bubble of boredom to explore the ‘city of contrasts’ where ‘East meets West’. I was disillusioned with quiet island life, and this shiny new plan was one that promised I would be far away from home. The move was a heavily romanticised idea, and before I knew it, I was hooked. 

I was never actually meant to be going to Hong Kong. The post-uni plan for the past two years had been to spend half a year volunteering in New Zealand. This plan was deemed safe by my parents, who saw the place as a brighter UK on the other side of the world. However, after working the summer under the sun, I decided that the meaning of life was simply to enjoy it and have fun. Suddenly, slogging it out to help some poor people became a lot less enticing. So when the sun began to distance itself from my slice of paradise in the Channel Islands, my mind began to devise an escape route. My best friend from uni had secured  a corporate job in Hong Kong, and I had previously booked my flights to New Zealand with a long layover in the city to see her. I’m not really sure when the idea of me joining her permanently moved from a vague idea to a concrete reality. All I know is that within a month I had moved my flight to Hong Kong forward, found a flat, secured a visa with employment and gained a TEFL qualification. It happened so quickly that I hardly registered I’d moved halfway across the world by the time  my plane landed in Hong Kong  airport. I was in such a rush to be anywhere but home that I had spontaneously committed to living for
a year in a country totally different to the one I had originally planned to go to and in a continent I had never travelled to before. I remember people looking at me a certain way when I told them I was going, like I was doing this strange thing that they would never do. And I remember being confused, because I didn’t think it was a big deal at all. And this was because I quite literally hadn’t thought about what I was doing. At all. 

Usually, when jumping into my ill-thought through plans, I had faced cold-water shock from being plunged into the consequences of my spontaneity. However, this was a whim that shocked me with how little it shocked me. Despite the horrific humidity, the place felt entirely comfortable. It actually felt like the city was home, and the prevailing feeling I remember is one of relief. In some ways, it was relief that I hadn’t regretted my decision, but mostly it was relief that I was finally far away from home. For the past few months I had felt desperately in need of space- space  to think, to breathe, and to be my authentic self away from a community who saw me under the veil of past versions of me. It was an itch I had scratched by running halfway across the world to a place where no one – bar one person – knew me. And truly, in those first few days, I felt overwhelmingly free. 

This euphoria turned out to be short-lived. Space evolved into loneliness and the city that had given me a sense of freedom now served me a platter of difficulty and entrapment.  I quite literally disdained being a kindergarten teacher, and the job that I had thought would be a doddle actually turned out to be the hardest job I had ever done. I had no idea how to discipline kids (nor myself, for that matter), and could not communicate with any of the other Cantonese teachers in the classroom. I was launched into the role without any training or guidance, and I remember being told the topic of an English lesson seconds before I was  to deliver it. Literally sweating from adrenaline, I stood in front of a classroom of three year old’s who stared blankly at me as I tried to get them to phonetically pronounce the letter ‘h’. It was an absolute nightmare, and a day was considered a success if the kids had not broken any classroom furniture or physically attacked one another. I awkwardly sung nursery rhymes at children, whilst their parents tried desperately to get them to participate. 

I made every professional mistake a teacher can make in front of parents, carers and colleagues. I was in such a fluster one day on a field trip that  I accidentally led a whole group of parents and students to a peacock enclosure when they had asked me to help them find the rabbits. I didn’t even realise my mistake until the headteacher came over to me and  asked whether I knew what a peacock was. Panicking, I pretended I had never seen the exotic animal before, and completely ditched my group to feel dejected under some shade. 

Those first few weeks of work felt like an eternity, and I found myself desperately wishing to be back where I had come from. I debated handing in my notice multiple times, but with no money and rent to pay I wasn’t in the financial position to risk a period of unemployment. My notice period was two months, and on days where I felt like bolting, this seemed like an eternity. It was the first time in my life where I had signed contracts and legally committed myself to things I couldn’t just run away from. Used to working under the obligation of zero hours, my salaried job felt like a prison of responsibility, and this burden made me feel miserable and trapped. I still loved Hong Kong, and was totally inspired by the culture of the place. But my job rarely gave me more than one day off a week, and I found most of my time passed in windowless classrooms with screaming, uncontrollable kids.

It turned out that the place where I’d run to avoid difficulty was the place I was forced to confront it. The funny thing is, looking back, I am so grateful that I found it so hard. Being trapped in a situation I wanted nothing but to escape from forced me to adapt and change. I had to grow up in a situation that felt much bigger than myself, and if I hadn’t experienced this struggle, I never would have known the fulfilment that came with overcoming it. As the days went on I realised I was beginning to love the kids that I initially found frustrating, and learnt that the difficult ones were only acting up due to a lack of affection. I discovered that the kids became much more disciplined when they were given attention rather than detention, and my classroom warmed as I grew alongside the children. I learnt to trust my instincts, and that honesty and compassion could get me through most of the trials I faced from day to day. I began to love my work, not because I found it enjoyable, but because I found it fulfilling. I saw that I was really making a difference in these tiny people’s lives, and my heart felt light when I saw their little faces light up at the school doors in the morning. I was glad that my classroom had become a place they could feel safe and loved away from home, facilitating an environment where they could practise showing kindness to one another. 

I knew that I was their teacher, but there were times when it felt like the kids had taught me. 

Over time, the job got easier, and I felt the burden of my employment lifting as I went further into my comfort zone. But the initial relief I felt from this improvement was short-lived, and compensated by an unexpected sadness. In the absence of an everyday trial, a hurdle I could tunnel vision on, I was forced to look around and observe my reality. I was thousands of miles away from home, with only one long-term friend. I now valued personal development over personal enjoyment, and felt like I was drifting in a career I did not aspire to. After training myself to face difficulty straight on, I became passionate about pursuing my real dream of being a writer. However, I was stuck in a country that rapidly required suitable candidates to have proficiency in both written Mandarin and Cantonese. Having neither of these skills, doors were shut on me before I even had the chance to introduce myself. I slowly faced the realisation that aside from the best friend I came with, there was no reason for me being in Hong Kong anymore. In addition to this, I craved the company of the friends and family I’d left behind. I missed people I had never particularly liked, and no longer felt an aversion to those 

I previously needed ‘space’ from. It was the absences around me that made me realise how lucky I was to have had what I had, and my time left in Hong Kong stretched out in front of me like a looming prison sentence. On top of all this, I felt like I had failed, and was too ashamed to tell people how lonely I was. It all seemed like one big mistake, an impulse that had evolved into disaster, a giant web I couldn’t untangle myself from.

But it wasn’t a mistake. Yes, it was reckless. Yes, it’s not an easy situation to get out of. And yes, the consequences have been really difficult. If I had not had a best friend to cry and drink cheap cabernet with I can confidently say it would have been unbearable. But if I had the choice again, knowing what  I know now, I’d still put myself through hell in a heartbeat. Screaming children and all. Life chucked me overboard and into the storm, but with stinging eyes and a mouthful of seawater I managed to emerge above the surface. To have had the opportunity to get everything wrong, learn from it, and come out a different person is a privilege I’m extremely grateful for. And so ironically, the place I ran away to has led me back to where I came from – home, at least for a little while.