Why I Left London, the First Time

People assume I left London because of COVID. And technically, that’s true. But it’s also not. 

COVID was my “get out of jail free” card. It gave me an out without having to admit what I already knew deep down: I was never fully in. Not in London. Not in my new life. Not in the version of myself I’d hoped would magically appear once I moved across the ocean. 

I had started planning my exit before COVID even entered the chat. Quietly, casually. Little mental notes. “Maybe I’ll enjoy one more summer of travel, experience another real fall and see the leaves change, then when I go home for the holidays, that will be when I go home for good.” The truth was, I felt disconnected from my new life the moment I landed.  

Trying to keep my long-distance relationship alive from another continent was ineffective, and deeply discouraging. I carried this constant guilt for leaving. For “choosing” adventure over us. For daring to chase something I’d wanted my entire life.  

I kept to myself. I didn’t go out and explore the way I should have. I didn’t say yes to the magic of London. Because part of me was terrified: what if I loved it? What if I built a beautiful life here? What would that mean for my relationship? 

So I played it safe. Emotionally speaking, I stayed loyal to a relationship that was basically on a loop: off, on, confusion, repeat. 

 I didn’t put myself out there. I made exactly one friend (thank goodness for her). I flew home every chance I got, not for adventure or escape, but to prove my love. To prove that I hadn’t moved on. 

I was in London, but I wasn’t living in it. 

And when COVID hit and the borders started closing, I didn’t hesitate. I packed a bag, booked a flight, and went back to California “for a month.” That month turned into a full return. And while I told everyone it was the smart thing to do (and in many ways, it was), the reality is: I was relieved. 

Leaving gave me the emotional permission to stop pretending. 

I told myself it wasn’t the ending I wanted, but maybe it was the one I needed. Still, a part of me couldn’t shake the feeling that I had unfinished business. That I had let fear call the shots. That I had left before I ever really arrived. 

Despite coming home to everything I had been longing for, I felt a little like a quitter, that I missed an opportunity.  

And now that I’ve come back, I’m doing things differently. 

But that’s a post for another time. 

For now, this is the truth of why I left London the first time: Because I couldn’t fully be there when my heart was still somewhere else. Because I let the fear of loving it, and what that might cost me, keep me from ever giving it a real chance. 

This time, I’m showing up. Fully. Finally. Even if it’s messy.