In 2013, my family relocated to The Hague. On paper, we were supported: a relocation agency helped us find a home and a school for our oldest child. In reality, I was a sleep-deprived parent juggling a baby and a preschooler, trying to rebuild a life in a country where I knew no one — while my spouse stepped into a ready-made community at the office.
A few weeks before school started, we received a simple list of things our son needed for his first days: lunch, snacks, a pillow, a raincoat, wellies. Nothing dramatic. But with two children who napped at different times — three nap windows a day — and barely enough mental space to keep track of meals and nappy changes, even a small task could grow into something enormous.
The wellies became my breaking point.
I wanted my son to have what he needed, but I had no idea where to buy children's rainboots in our new neighbourhood. I had no one to ask. No parent network. No local friend. No mental bandwidth. The thought of finding those wellies started to consume me — not because of the boots themselves, but because they symbolised everything I didn't yet understand about our new life.
One Saturday, during a family walk, I spotted a pair in a shop window. They were expensive, but they ticked the box — and I needed that box ticked more than anything. I bought them, not knowing that if I had walked 50 metres further, I could have bought five pairs for the same price.
My spouse focused on the price.
I felt a wave of relief — and profound loneliness.
Back home, I would have known exactly where to go. And if I didn't, I would have known exactly who to ask. In The Hague, I had no one. Every day, my spouse came home with stories from his new office community, while I was still trying to figure out where to buy rainboots.
That moment stayed with me.