‘So, how are you getting back?” the barman in Lahinch asked my husband as he placed the creamy black pints on the bar to settle. We were nearly at the end of a week’s stay a couple of summers ago. We had been swimming every day despite the rain. Our middle teenager had delighted in catching waves in the Atlantic surf. Popping into Fawley’s for “just the one” had quickly become a cherished ritual. “Well,” replied my husband, “We’re getting the ferry from Dublin.”“No, how are you planning on getting home? Waiting until the kids are finished in school or leaving before then? I assume you’re not planning on staying over there forever?”We moved to England in 2008. The plan was to finish my training. I had taken a roundabout route to becoming a doctor. When we had our little girl, I had finally realised how I wanted my career to progress. And finishing it more quickly in the UK was an option. My husband was happy to get transferred or to take on contracting roles; finding a new job in tech was not a big deal. We were only going to stay 18 months. But the crash made it more difficult to move back. It seemed more sensible to stay in a secure job. We were hearing disquieting stories about job losses and bankruptcies. On visits home through Dublin Airport, dusty vehicles in the short-term car park told tales of one-way tickets abroad. Then it was time for our daughter to start school. It would only be for a while, I said. I ordered the junior infants books from Fallons to read at home. I encouraged her to keep saying “marla” instead of “play dough”, “runners” instead of “trainers”. We kept up the cúpla focal with bainne and leaba thrown about generously. My husband recognises that very rocky times are on the horizon in the UKBut she loved her little primary school in our (semi-) leafy village. So did the other two who came after her. We became more comfortable too. We made the kind of friends you meet because your children like each other, but who become as close as anyone you connect with as a teenager. I still thought about going back home, often waking, worrying in the very early morning. As the years passed and our children became more enmeshed in their lives: music, sports and friendships, it felt more difficult to think about separating them. My career was flourishing and the impostor syndrome had finally been banished.As a GP in suburban Hampshire, my Irishness is embraced. Nobody found it ironic when they complained about their holiday costing more after Brexit, while clutching the Daily Mail. They laughed when I replied: “Well, I’m a foreign doctor too”, if they complained about the local hospital staffing. “Oh, you’re not really.” That gives the impression that I am surrounded by racists and xenophobes. I’m not, thank goodness. In fact, my patients are a big part of what I enjoy about this place. It is a privilege to witness their thoughts, aspirations and fears. I sometimes think I’m becoming a pastiche, with my “Sure why wouldn’t you feel that way?” or “Take your time, it’s grand”, while allowing the minutes to pass as my patients get to the heart of what is troubling them. Now we have a child at university, one studying for his A-levels and another for his GCSEs. Life with young children barely gives you time to sneeze, never mind plan your future. But in the past few years we’ve been able to clear our heads and look around. Our children tell me they are Irish, but I know they can’t completely feel that way. But they wouldn’t see themselves as completely English. They fail Norman Tebbit’s cricket test with aplomb every time there is an international match. My daughter is studying in Liverpool because it has the course she wanted. It is almost like I planned it. She’s in one of the most Irish cities in the world outside of the 32 counties, packed with GAA jerseys on a Saturday night.I’ve taken my 18-year-old to open days in Dublin and Belfast. He knows that my dream is for all of us to get back some day but I won’t hold him to it. My sister brings me down to earth by telling me stories of her children’s contemporaries who have found their feet thousands of miles from their parents. This calms my guilt of taking my children away from where I feel deep down is the best place to raise a family. My husband is known to be pessimistic – “realistic”, is how he describes it. He recognises that very rocky times are on the horizon in the UK. A populist right-wing government in the next few years is not unlikely, and the world is troubled. Will our UK-born son be enlisted when he comes of age?The answer to that Lahinch bartender’s question is rapidly becoming more formed.Fiona McErlean is originally from Dundalk and lives in Hampshire, where she works as a GP.Are you Irish and living in another country? Would you like to share your experience in writing or by interview? You can use the form below, or email abroad@irishtimes.com. Irish Times Abroad submission guidelines here. Follow us on Instagram to keep up with the latestSign up to The Irish Times Abroad newsletter for Irish-connected people around the world.