I WITHDRAW everything I said about Scotland these past few months. My goodness, I have been so negative! There I was, constantly grumbling about how hard everything was, and what was an occasional chat with my husband turned into a regular debate.

Are we done here? Should I start learning Spanish and Catalan and set my sights on Barcelona? Or go back to a place we know, with people and languages we know? But it’s incredible how a bit of sunshine can change everything. This past weekend, the sun was out, it was warm, and I started romanticising everything. Scotland, you and I, we’re good. We’re made for each other. I don’t want to be anywhere else. Life is truly awesome.

In the sunlight, my worries felt distant, almost insignificant. It is as if the frustrations that had plagued me for months – the high cost of living, the struggles with childcare, the struggling NHS – suddenly melted away. Instead, I was filled with a profound sense of gratitude.

Grateful for the beauty around me, for the kind and resilient people, for the culture that felt both familiar and new. Grateful for the chance to raise my child in a place that, despite its flaws, feels like home.

There is something magical about the sun in Scotland. It’s fair to say, it was a rare visitor in this interminable winter. But when it arrived, it was as if the entire country came alive.

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This past weekend, Scotland was bathed in golden light, and it felt like the world was starting anew. The warmth of the sun seeped into my bones, chasing away the lingering chill of winter, and suddenly, everything looked brighter, more vibrant, more beautiful.

And, at last, I didn’t have to wrestle with my toddler to get him to wear long sleeves and trousers – that was my biggest win in a long time! The gardens and parks were filled with people, their faces turned upwards, soaking in the sunshine. I had a picnic, my first polymorphic light eruption (yes, even darker skins can experience sun allergy), and I felt renewed, truly, deeply happy, like a hibernating creature emerging into spring.

Even that wretched pothole near my flat didn’t seem so bad under the sunny skies. Instead of cursing it for the umpteenth time, I found myself smiling at it. It had become a familiar landmark, a reminder of the imperfections that make me think: yes, I am really here, in Scotland.

Now I don’t want to doubt anything ever again.

This winter was one of the hardest since I moved to Scotland. I found myself questioning many of my life choices. Each news story seemed to bring more bad news – poverty on the rise, inflation, and a growing sense of instability.

The lack of affordable housing, the high cost of childcare, and the overall expense of living here were deeply frustrating. Public services felt inadequate, and everything seemed precarious. I couldn’t shake the infuriating thought that peace of mind was only for those with deep pockets. I was constantly obsessing over this and felt so angry about the state of the country.

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And I didn’t have many opportunities to vent – people here aren’t as inclined to demonstrate and protest en masse against government decisions… Living in a country with a lot less regulations and safety nets than what I have always been used to can be daunting. This freedom comes with a price: uncertainty. This winter, I felt the weight of that uncertainty more than ever.

This became painfully clear to me with an experience that I found deeply depressing – it might seem anecdotal but to me, it highlighted what I find difficult in this country.

My bathroom was repeatedly flooded by my neighbour upstairs, who, to this day, refuses to call a plumber to check his bathtub. When a person from the council came, I asked him, completely baffled at the situation: aren’t homeowners supposed to be insured for that kind of stuff? I wasn’t blaming my neighbour, just saying it was his responsibility to fix it.

The guy from the council said: the vast majority will be, but some mortgage lenders don’t make insurance compulsory, so it might be the case that he is not insured, which might explain why he is so unwilling to do the necessary repairs.

And when our letting agency confirmed that there is no way to force him to do anything unless our landlord sued our neighbour and a court decision was made, I thought: now, this is a crazy country.

Where I come from, this wouldn’t have been able to happen. If you are a homeowner or a landlord in a block of flats, you are obliged under the law to contribute financially to the factors and to have insurance because damage to your property might affect others.

It is also compulsory for the factors to have a fund for repairs and improvements, so people never find themselves in the situation of having to pay for repairs themselves if other owners can’t or won’t pay.

I used to idealise this lack of rules, thinking it made people more co-operative, more collaborative, and gave a sense of responsibility towards each other. But what relying on everyone’s goodwill also does is give freedom to be selfish without many consequences.

This incident decisively put an end to my romanticised view of the laissez-faire approach. It highlighted the downside of a system that relies too heavily on personal responsibility without sufficient regulations to ensure accountability.

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It has really made me think about the notion of security. Not in the sense that life in Scotland is dangerous – I don’t fear for my safety particularly, or at least I don’t have more fear here than I would somewhere else.

But security isn’t just about physical safety. It is the lack of infrastructure, the gaps in the social safety net, and the general feeling that things rules aren’t being defined that make me uneasy.

The fear isn’t that something catastrophic will happen tomorrow, but that the slow erosion of support and trust will gradually wear us down. It is the creeping dread of instability, the constant worry about what might go wrong next. This kind of insecurity seeps into your thoughts and colours your outlook on life.

This is what happened to me in the winter, and it makes me wonder if I can ever look at Scotland again with the same sense of wonder that I had coming here a few years ago.

Parents have a unique way of bringing you back to reality. Their visits are a mix of joy and subtle reminders of the life we left behind. They marvel at Scotland’s beauty, the vibrant culture, and our happiness, but they don’t fully grasp why we choose this path. To them, it seems like we have opted for a more difficult life.

In France, we would have a comprehensive support system – child benefits, subsidised childcare, much easier access to specialised healthcare (for example gynaecologists, physiotherapists, and preventive medicine in general), better access to quality housing, and relatives close by to help. Their logic is sound and their concern is genuine, making it hard to explain why we stay here.

So what is it then, that makes us stay here in Scotland? For me, professional opportunities, of course, but mainly, love.

Ultimately, it boils down to love. There is a sense of belonging and community here that I haven’t found anywhere else. Scotland is a place that has become part of me, and despite the challenges, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

Living here isn’t always easy, and sometimes the logical choice seems to be returning to France. But love isn’t always logical and pragmatic. It is passionate, stubborn, and often irrational. It is what keeps me here.