The Hardest Part of Life on Land - I Wish Someone Had Warned Me About This

When I left ships, I expected there would be an adjustment period. I knew I would need to find another job, create a new routine and get used to living permanently on land after spending so many years going backwards and forwards between ships and vacation.

Those were the obvious parts of the transition, and they were the parts I could think about before I left.  What I hadn't thought about was the period in between.

The time after ship life has stopped, but before your land life has properly taken shape.

I didn't know what it would feel like to have so many parts of my life changing at the same time, or how quickly the uncertainty in one area could spill over into another.

I also didn't realise how easily that could make me question a decision I had already made.

Looking back, this was probably the hardest part of adjusting to life on land, and it's the part I wish I'd understood before I left.

Cruise ship crew spend months building a life at sea — small cabins, twelve-hour shifts, and a family of two thousand strangers. Stepping off the gangway for the last time is supposed to feel like freedom. For most, it feels like grief.

 Land Life Can Arrive in Pieces 

I think this is the part I wish I'd understood earlier.

Before I left ships, I thought about the transition in quite practical terms. I would leave, find a job, settle into land life and, once everything was in place, I would be fine, and to some degree, that makes sense. Those are the parts of the transition you can see and plan for in advance.

What I couldn't see was what it would feel like while all those pieces were still in motion.

You might be actively applying for jobs and even getting interviews, but until someone offers you a position, you still don't have a job. You don't know when you're going to start earning an income again. You might have applied yesterday for a job you really want and be hoping this is the application that finally gets you through to the interview, but right now you're still waiting. At the same time, you're trying to work out what an ordinary week on land looks and feels like.

You no longer have a work schedule telling you where you need to be. Your ship friends aren't around you every day. You don't automatically have people to eat with, somewhere to go after work or a whole ship community happening around you. You might not have hobbies yet because you've never needed to think about what you would do every Tuesday evening when you live permanently on land.

Even something as ordinary as food can be part of the adjustment. If you've spent years walking into the crew mess and having every meal prepared for you, are you cooking now? Are you still ordering food because that's easier? What does grocery shopping, meal planning and feeding yourself seven days a week look like?

Then there's your social life. Who do you see regularly now? Are you reaching out to friends and family? Are you meeting new people? What are you doing at the weekend? What will eventually make the place you're living in feel like your community rather than simply the place you used to come home to on vacation?

None of these things individually sounds enormous.

It's when they're all happening at the same time. that you can suddenly feel incredibly off balance.

And then something happens in one of those areas that hits harder than you expected.

The job you were really hoping for emails to say they're not progressing with your application.

You see a cruise ship in port and, for a moment, find yourself wondering whether you should have stayed.

Your ship friends all happen to be in port together and your social media fills up with photos of them having a fantastic day while you're sitting at home trying to work out what to do with yours.

And suddenly the doubt arrives…

What was I thinking?

Was leaving ships the right decision?

Why does everyone onboard look like they're having a great time while I feel completely lost?

That's the part of the transition I don't think we talk about enough, as while all of this is happening, you haven't done anything wrong, the pieces of your land life simply haven't formed yet.

Your new routine hasn't had enough time to become normal.

And the answer to “What do you do?” may still be “I used to work on cruise ships,” because you don't know what comes after it yet.

That one sentence used to explain so much about your life.

“I work on cruise ships” told people that you travelled, that you spent long periods away from home and that your working life was very different from a regular nine-to-five job. If they wanted to know more, they could ask what you did onboard or where you'd been travelling.

But it also told you something.

You knew where you belonged. You knew what your days looked like. You knew where your income came from. You had colleagues, friends, routine, professional identity and a community around you. You knew that when vacation ended, you would pack your suitcase and go back to work.

When that sentence changes to “I used to work on cruise ships,” the person you're talking to may hear almost the same story.

But for you, those three words  -  I used to -  can represent everything that hasn't been replaced yet.

And that's the void.

It's the period where ship life is no longer your life, but enough of your land life hasn't formed yet for it to feel solid either.

And when you're in that void, it's very easy to judge your decision by how your life feels right now.  The job rejection feels bigger because you don't yet have the next opportunity. Missing your shipmates feels bigger because your new social life hasn't formed. An empty Tuesday feels bigger because you haven't yet created the routine that will eventually make Tuesday feel completely normal.

That's why I wish I'd known about this part of the transition before I experienced it. Not because knowing would have removed the uncertainty, but because I would have understood what the uncertainty represented.

It doesn't necessarily mean leaving ships was the wrong choice.  It may simply mean you're right in the middle of the transition, where your old life has ended and your new one is still being built.