I’ve spent a fair bit of my life on the move, and there are times it feels like trying to find yourself in the middle of a house full of boxes and yet another new postcode.

You land in a new place, unpack just enough to function, and realise you’re not entirely sure where “you” ended up in the process. You go through cartons marked “Essentials” and find all sorts of things you barely remember packing. Somewhere between the old paperwork and the chipped mug from three houses ago, you start wondering what exactly you’ve carried forward and what got left behind.

Each new town or community asks for a slightly different version of you. You adjust how you talk, what you share, what you keep to yourself. After a while it’s easy to wonder whether you actually have a fixed identity, or if you’re just someone who’s learned to fit into whatever’s in front of you. A few one-way streets might have been simpler.

The truth, at least as I see it now, is that identity isn’t something you misplace in a move. It’s not a single neat object you either have or don’t. It’s something that gets built – and rebuilt – over time. Every relocation adds another layer: different jobs, different landscapes, different people. Some parts you keep, some you quietly retire, some only make sense years later.

What helps is noticing the pieces that stay the same, no matter where you end up: the way you treat people, what you’re prepared to stand for, the sort of work that still feels worthwhile. And the friends who stick, despite distance and long gaps between calls – they say as much about who you are as any address ever did.

So I keep unpacking, literally and otherwise. Sorting what’s worth hanging onto, what can be let go, and what new thing is trying to take shape. If I’ve become the sum of many parts, spread across a lot of places, that’s fine. There are worse problems than having a life with a few extra chapters.