I was gently raised with the idea that Britain was fair and decent, a country that meant something good. This was likely shaped by growing up in Devon, somewhere green and small, where things felt familiar and a bit tucked away from the rest of the world.
At the time of the Brexit referendum, despite being only twelve, I actually supported it. I remember feeling weirdly pleased when the Vote Leave campaign won, probably because my dad backed it and I wanted to be involved. It felt nice to have a political opinion. By the time I was 13 or 14, I had learnt more about the world. Within a year or two I was campaigning, going to protests, watching online debates – far too obsessed with Europe for a GCSE student. After all my passionate engagement, the 2019 general election crushed me, and I felt physically sick when the exit poll was announced. This was one of the first times I understood what it meant to be politically heartbroken.
In school, I was learning more about Britain’s past: empire, war, denial, and what hadn’t been discussed before. It didn’t feel right, then or now, that we were meant to be proud of something so full of harm. Spending time considering Britain’s legacy makes it hard to overlook how much damage it caused, and how present that damage still is, and I understand why many see Britain as something to push back against or renounce completely. But I’ve also never been able to fully abandon the idea that the UK could be something else. Not innocent or exceptional, but decent, welcoming, and internationally collaborative. The kind of place London probably felt like in 2012 when the Olympics allowed a modern form of Britishness to be publicised. I didn’t completely understand what was happening at the time, but I remember the feeling: that quiet sense we were doing something good. Looking back, that version of the UK felt positive and fun, and it shaped the way I grew up thinking about Britain.
Oxford has only confused that. In some ways, it’s the most English place I’ve ever lived. Not just in its history, but in its contradictions. I’ve found queer safety and possibility there. I’ve also felt silenced by the weight of tradition, and frustrated at the gaps in solidarity. Sometimes it feels like England distilled: beautiful and painful, magical and blinkered, stuck in its own story even when it knows better. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of the version of England I still believe in. Not in some perfect idyll, but in the messy, funny, unrepeatable energy of real life. A late-night walk through a city I love. A pub garden where accents clash and everyone’s a bit too loud. A countryside that’s gloomy and green and full of sudden joy. We have bad weather and plenty of flaws, but I love our music, our festival culture, our sense of humour – and our unique position in, and subsequent view of, the world. That version of England isn’t proud in a loud way. It just exists. And it’s better than the story nationalism tries to tell.
Then I moved to Germany, where the distance made everything clearer and more confusing at once. From the outside, the UK looked smaller and sadder. My Irish friends in Bonn saw it through the lens of something much more painful and political. While I’ll never be able to fully understand it the way they do, their perspective is not difficult to empathise with. The spectrum of views lay somewhere between a more generational opposition to the UK and those emphasising compromise and the new era brought by the Good Friday Agreement. It’s not really my place to have a strong opinion, but I support them because it just makes sense to me.
The more I sat with that, the more it shaped my thoughts on the state of the UK today. I’m quietly in favour of the different independence movements, but it’s strange, because it leaves England, and I don’t really know what England is, or what I want it to be. I’ve briefly wondered whether Britishness could still survive in some softer, post-union way, a bit like how European identity is formed out of shared history and common culture. But without its own devolved parliament or institutions, English identity feels oddly shapeless, and it’s difficult to escape the historical weight of imperial oppression. This summer, we saw the Lionesses bring home the Euros trophy for a second time. It’s hard not to feel proud of our team; the scenes of the recent victory parade were a rare display of English pride that felt warm rather than uncomfortable. This may herald a new kind of patriotism, but the question of national self-definition remains a problematic one.
Since it’s no longer straightforward to move or work abroad within Europe, I don’t see myself living anywhere else long-term, except, perhaps, from Wales. I have spent quite a bit of time there, and it feels geographically and emotionally closer to the version of Britain I still care about. Learning Welsh during lockdown gave me a deeper appreciation for the unique culture, although I have no personal claim upon it. Yet I feel many English people who move to Wales do so either without a desire to learn or respect this, or in a way that edges towards cultural re-writing as opposed to integration. This is especially true in Anglesey, where I’ve spent the bulk of my time in Wales, and seeing this in practice is upsetting, even if I might be complicit myself. My granny shares my perspective on this; she is as Cornish as Cornish gets, and has faced similar frustrations at how Cornwall has changed, with locals priced out of coastal towns, often with no sensitivity to that fact or the privilege behind it. The rest of my family, however, are just vaguely English, in a way that’s both ordinary and hard to define. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to the smaller nations within the UK, the ones that seem more sure of themselves. But this is something that should be protected, not re-written.
I want a version of Englishness that isn’t about nostalgia or control. Something plural, curious, and reflective – while not asking for innocence or forgiveness. I just want to believe that the things worth loving aren’t already gone. That it’s still possible to be from here, to acknowledge the harm, and to actively choose a better kind of belonging. That we can still make something of the present. And maybe the whole idea of national identity is more fragile than we think. Maybe it fades, or shifts, or comes back in different forms. But even if it doesn’t matter in the long run, I still feel it. I think there’s a lot in the UK worth protecting, if we’re brave enough to change what needs to change and careful enough to keep what matters. I want to have a heritage of which I can be proud. Not one that erases the harm, but one that tries to reckon with it honestly.
