On Uprooting my Life and Losing Myself

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I didn’t know which bit to grasp onto so it wouldn’t completely sink, and perhaps I was scared to attempt something that would make it worse. 

530. That is the number of days since I have written a piece. 

As I rage-scroll through my previously published work, it dawns on me that this is my own doing. I have given up on myself. Me, a writer, an editor, a creative who takes pride in my work and in this side of my identity, I have let it die. It started with a few weeks, as life got busy. And before I knew it, it was a year and a half since I had sat down in front of my computer and expressed myself on my own platform. 

This whole time, I watched the slow motion of the whirlpool, frozen, taking my words and my potential underground. I didn’t know which bit to grasp onto so it wouldn’t completely sink, and perhaps I was scared to attempt something that would make it worse. 

Forgive me as I take some time to make sense of it all. I would rather do it with you than alone. If I’m honest with myself, one doesn’t quite suddenly vanish from their own lives, and there has been a series of events that led me to press ‘pause’ on, well, me. The reason it has felt impossible to share my feelings openly is that it involves other people’s lives. 

My last piece dates back to 17 May 2024, and I spent a shameful amount of time racking my brain to remember what had happened to me since. I drew a blank, pulled up my calendar, and it all rushed back. Three weeks after that day, I witnessed something that should never have happened. I saw someone I love get hurt, leading me to leave my life in London, UK, to be with her. Be with her at any cost, as soon as possible. It wasn’t a ‘pause.’ I had hit the eject button, just like that, and tore myself away from everything I had built.  

I would, of course, do it all over again, a million times over until the end of days, because nothing could ever be more important than her wellbeing. But somehow, it slipped my mind that this may have hindered my capacity to share personal, intimate stories about myself.

If she ever reads this in the future, I want her to know that the day she was born was the happiest one in my life. Thinking about it still brings tears of joy, 8 years later. In fact, this is why I didn’t care so much about the loss of writing. Nothing else mattered, for a very long time.

The thought of her was all consuming, and while a lot happened in the world at that time, I was too involved in my own, in damage control, to write about it. Now that I am finally putting this on paper I realise it’s not that I had nothing to say, in fact there was one precise topic I wanted to write about, but I just couldn’t do it. I still can’t, as what happened is not my pain to share. There is someone to blame for the mess, but blaming them publicly would only hurt her. I guess we’re all doing the best we can with what we have and in the time we are given.

But she, my love, is the core, the reason behind a chain of events that has unfolded since. Thankfully, I have made lemonade with life’s lemons and I am now in a much better place, psychologically. Maybe, in fact, this is why I’m ready to write about myself again. 

The decision was right, but the conditions were dire. The only way I could describe this monumental change is that I uprooted fifteen years of life in London, only to see it turn into ash very quickly. It took one day to make the call, then another four to give all my belongings away, pack a suitcase and book a one-way ticket to Copenhagen, Denmark. As she celebrated her birthday, I left behind my best friend, our shared apartment, our two cats, and moved into someone else’s home to support them the best I could. 

What followed was in no way a miracle recovery. It was months of heartache for us all under that same roof. Some days were good, some less so. We were dealing with violence, with torment. There was a dark cloud over our heads. I had nothing but the conviction that I was at the right place at the right time. That we had been blessed to have each other. I was grateful to be able to be there, that the only way was up.

Seasons changed, and healing started. We collectively learned our lessons, and after sleeping on someone’s couch for months, I slowly awakened. The storm had passed, the skies were finally clearing out, but it also meant I could see myself standing in a field of ruins.

I had lost myself, but I’d also gained so much. I hadn’t wasted my time, by any means. I had traveled, met new people. I had been taking care of my loved ones. I was dating again, and that made me want to go back to therapy. After a few sessions, I realised I had omitted the move from London and the overall traumatic experience that had triggered it. Just like I left it out when reflecting on my writing lull. So, with expert guidance, I accepted that I had been running away from the very thought of it, and now I had to grieve. 

In London, I had a life filled with friends, projects and familiar places. I knew where I was, and who I was. I had furniture, art, books and memories. And I had catapulted myself into someone else’s life, took on duties that weren’t mine, and spent months pushing down the bitter pill. I had refused to mourn any of it, because mourning was too close to regretting and the guilt crushed me every time it crossed my mind. How could I regret giving up on my life for the most important person in it?

But two things can be true at the same time. I deeply regretted the way I had left, what was now behind me and the chaos of it all. I also felt right about the choice, who I had done this for and what my mission had been. But there was change in the air, and it was starting to feel like my time again. I wanted to settle, on my own terms this time. To embrace this new opportunity to create the quiet little life I had always dreamed of. 

So in February this year, I decided to stay. To stop surviving here but to live, and take this as my official start. I wrote a love letter to London to say goodbye and thank you. I wrote a letter to myself to apologise, and another one to congratulate myself for both the self-destruction and the bravery to start over.

I found a peaceful job, set the wheels in motion and embarked on the administrative process to establish my residence here. This new life didn’t feel surreal anymore, I was holding its reins and re-building it bit by bit.

I found new friendships and a love I had never dared to dream of. And when summer came, I moved into my new home. For the first time in over a year, I had a bed again. I had a room with a door that I could lock and keep my own private world between four walls. I had privacy, intimacy and independence. This felt a lot closer to being me, but still incomplete.

The painful truth is that I am still mourning my old life. I miss the parts of myself I have lost on the way here, the streets of London, the energy of it, my habits. Some things are irreplaceable. I miss my Monday choir and my singing lessons. I miss my friends, my chosen family, spending my weekends playing games with them or talking about everything happening in our lives. I love the home I have now, but I also miss the one we once shared. I miss feeling like I belong in a large group, having a crew. And I miss my work, this important work that I used to do here. I have missed this particular mission all these months, but I understand now I just couldn’t put any of my writing forward before I told this story. I had to honour what had happened to me first so I could move on and write about anything else.

Life is softly picking back up. There is so much happiness in it now, and so much to tell. 

Luckily, I haven’t completely stopped writing. I have been working on a novel, some secret fiction just for myself. When I couldn’t put my feelings or the events of my life into words, it’s been much easier to channel them into my protagonist. Maybe you’ll hear about him someday. He is an anti-hero with a lot of feelings. A gentle monster who destroys everything he touches. He means well, he’s just a little lost. I guess we all get lost sometimes.