Bonnie and Clyde. Batman and Robin. Thelma and Louise. Travelling is always easier with a sidekick. Someone walking down the same path as you. Someone who shares a burden as easily as an adventure. Emigrating as a couple can provide comfort, but what if it works out only for one and not the other?

I'm looking out of our fifth-floor flat in Peckham, in southeast London. We're comfortably settled three years after we left Ireland, so it can be easy to forget what a struggle it was. But in this moment I'm reliving every bruise and burn. I didn't emigrate alone, but at times I felt left behind. I suffered where my boyfriend, Russell, soared. His career reached unimaginable heights as mine stopped in its tracks. He lived the life we both envisioned yet I was worse off than ever.

Although we had individually planned to leave Ireland before we met, it took our coming together to join hands and jump across the Irish Sea. We have a blog together, so most of what we do goes hand in hand anyway. Gastrogays.com, about the food scene in Dublin, was a hobby while I worked for RTÉ and Russell worked for Marks & Spencer.

I joined the national broadcaster, in a digital-content role, straight after my journalism degree at Dublin City University. I left with my head held so high I thought that nothing could stand in my way, that my experience back home would set me apart in London.

Russell’s phone rang for interviews almost as soon as he walked off the plane at Heathrow. Within weeks he was offered a role at the BBC, as well as a once-in-a-lifetime chance to intern at Radio 1. Any role in the media would have satisfied him, but the latter was a possible foot in the door for his dream job, one he had pined for while stacking shelves in Dublin, where his talent was going to waste. I told myself that my big pay-off was just around the corner.

Time after time I was screened on the phone for job interviews, had face-to-face meetings and took countless performance tests. I was in the top 10, the top five, then the top two, but I never got the job. My best was never good enough. Days seemed endless as I refreshed my in-box, scoured job sites and adapted applications to every employer. I was exhausted, anxious and on the edge. I couldn’t enjoy being in my new city, racked with guilt that any moment I spent away from job-seeking would result in missed opportunities.

Six months in, and in considerable debt, I was desperate for work. The thought of returning home at Christmas with nothing to show for myself filled me with dread. So I found a temporary retail job in the run-up to Christmas, with a six-hour-a-week contract.

Russell and I had traded places. I had been the career man with the sexy title and high-paying job while he earned a relative pittance working on a checkout; now it was the opposite. I’ve no shame about my job stacking shelves and serving customers, but it wasn’t what I left Ireland for.

A positive was that our blog flourished in London. Our words were seen by millions more eyes, some of them influential. I clawed my way up the retail chain and managed to leave to start climbing a similar career ladder that I began in Ireland. I exhaled the sigh of relief I had held in since I boarded the plane two years earlier.

We weren’t oceans from home, or three flights away, but London is as tough a place to emigrate to as any other. It’s easy to hop on a flight and run home when you need a hug or creature comforts, but it doesn’t feel far enough to justify packing it in when the going gets tough. If what happened to me in London had taken place in Canada, New Zealand or Tokyo I would have thrown in the towel long ago.

There are opportunities by the bucketload abroad, but there’s no guarantee you’ll be afforded them.