The visa itself wasn't the hard part. The hard part was everything happening around it — the house, the school transition, the job search, the emotional weight of an international move landing all at once.

My partner is British. Before I ever considered moving to England, I visited at least a dozen times. Not weekend trips — real visits. I stayed with family. I walked the streets in every season. I sat in the pubs and the parks and the supermarket queues. I thought I understood what life here would look like. I was completely wrong.

I say that with full affection, because I have now lived through enough British summers — and British heatwaves — to understand that the way this country responds to extreme heat is one of the most purely British things I have ever encountered. It is simultaneously catastrophic and deeply, deeply funny.

It's the end of May here in the United Kingdom. The evenings are getting longer, that particular British gold light that stretches past 9pm like it's trying to convince you summer is real and permanent. And somewhere in the back of my head, I'm aware that back home, Memorial Day just passed. That somebody grilled something. That somebody drove somewhere. That people I used to know went about the whole ritual of it without me.