leaving, again
maybe all adulthood is just leaving over and over until you learn to take yourself with you
A relative asked me this at the dinner table the other night.
“Does London feel like home?” they said, in that casual way people ask questions they don’t realise are loaded. And without thinking, I quickly answered: yes.
Because it does.
I can roam without navigation now. I have my favourite spots, my favourite bakeries. I know which bus gets me home fastest, but I’ll often take the long way home just for that familiar glimpse of Tower Bridge. I can tell you which borough has the best vintage markets, which pub will always squeeze you in on a Friday, what guestlist to get on a Saturday night and where you can find chocolate cake so good it ruins all the others. I know how to read the rhythm of the Tube escalators, how to dodge tourists without looking rushed, how to navigate not just the streets but also the people.
And somehow, I knew enough people in London that I started bumping into them on the streets. That’s how I knew the city had become mine; it shrank from being this intimidating, endless maze to a place where coincidences felt possible.
I got annoyed by the rain, complained about the weather like everyone else, and then turned around and fell hopelessly in love with London in spring and summer. I soaked up every patch of sunlight like my life depended on it. I went boating at Hyde Park on random Sundays. I did pilates almost every day and walked past Tower Bridge like it was my neighbourhood landmark. Christmas lights still made me pause like a tourist. So did the Millennium Bridge. And the Thames, in Richmond, Putney, Canary Wharf, or wherever I found it, always found a way to make me love London again. I couldn’t believe I live somewhere people travel and save to do once in a lifetime.
And as someone who never even used the metro in Delhi, I did not hate the Tube. The 12 pm fashion week, the sneakers, the drunken chaos on Saturday nights, the football chants that made the carriage feel like a stadium.
But what really got me was when books or shows mentioned places I actually knew. Like reading about a pub and realising, oh, I’ve been there. Or watching a movie and spotting the exact coffee shop in Notting Hill, that food place on Brick Lane, suddenly it’s a pop culture reference, but I experienced it.
It’s such a tiny thing, but it made me feel different. Like I wasn’t just passing through anymore. Like the city and I had these little secrets together. That’s what makes a city feel like yours.
And then, just like that, I left.
We didn’t renew our lease, my work contract was up, and suddenly I was packing my London life into two suitcases again, heavy in every way possible, emotionally and physically. I’ve moved homes before. Every time I think, this has to be the hardest thing I’ll ever do. And then somehow, I do it again. Leaving has become its own strange muscle memory, like airports, goodbyes, cartons, and weighing scales are part of my DNA now.
What I didn’t expect, though, was that coming back home wouldn’t really feel like home either.
I went for a movie one night, had dinner after, and came back late. Left a mess on my bed, clothes everywhere, bags half-open. When I walked back into my room, everything was folded, and my bed was made. Two years of living alone in London, paying rent, cleaning, cooking my meals, and building a routine. And here, within days, I had slipped back into being someone’s kid.
It’s not a bad feeling, exactly. It’s comforting, it’s love, it’s being cared for. But it’s disorienting too, like the independent, capable version of me in London was an alternate reality, and here, I’ve slipped back into being someone’s child.
Maybe that’s what growing up is: leaving things, again and again, until the leaving itself becomes its own kind of belonging.
I always thought I was a city girl. Big city, big dreams, big girl job. And London gave me that. I was doing big girl things, sitting in rooms I never imagined I’d be in. I felt expanded, stretched, like I could step into a version of myself I’d only daydreamed about in school.
On my last day in London, my friends went around the table, sharing what they’d miss about me. One of them said, “You always feel at home. You bring home wherever you go. You make people feel welcomed.” And that one sentence undid me. Because that’s all I ever wanted, to have a home, to create one.
For so long, “home” was my parents’ house. The bed always made, food waiting for me, someone remembering my habits without me having to say them out loud. My mother knows my things in that way only mothers do: what I’ll eat, when I’ll get cranky, the small details that make me feel known. And being known, I’ve realised, is its own kind of being loved. If one thing I know is, I am loved.
I used to dream of the day I’d have my own home. In London, we built a home, String lights and mismatched mugs. A fridge that was always stocked. A home that always welcomed people, A table where friends lingered after dinner, refusing to leave, forgetting their jackets so they had an excuse to come back.
Home doesn’t have to be permanent; it can be a season, a rented flat, a picnic on Hampstead Heath, a Sunday walk by the Thames, a dinner table where laughter lingers after plates are cleared.
And now, being back here, I’m learning something new: home isn’t fixed. It’s not always the place you grew up in. It’s not always the place you just left. Sometimes it’s both. Sometimes it’s neither. Sometimes it’s just the people who make you feel like yourself. And maybe, just maybe, it’s me too.
Because if London taught me anything, it’s that home is less about bricks and postcodes and more about the crumbs of routine you leave behind. It’s swearing at the rain, forgiving it the moment the sun comes out, and convincing yourself that a bench by the Thames is just as sacred as any chapel.
Home isn’t one fixed place. It’s something you learn to build, again and again. And maybe, I’ve been home all along.
Links I’ll WhatsApp you if we were fast friends:
Article - How to pay attention again
Song I’m listening to on repeat
Article - Why Can’t I Stop Thinking About Child-Free Women?
(On some days, I’m only writing because I know the 5 people who will definitely read this and write back to me. I love it when you write back to me and tell me how you feel, what you like or what you think can be improved. You can just reply to this or drop a text on any of my socials, I appreciate it so much, and I’ll get back to you soon, Promise.)
Drink some water and buy yourselves some flowers.
See you in the next chapter,
It feels like a warm hug.
I miss you :)