I actually started writing this post on the DLR, heading into London, already convinced I knew exactly how it would end. Emotional. Nostalgic. Possibly featuring a dramatic stare out of the window while something indie played in my headphones.
But as the weekend went on, so did my perspective. And it turns out memories are very good at lying to us especially when viewed through rose-tinted glasses that conveniently blur out the inconvenient bits.
Sometimes, to move forward, you have to revisit your past and see it for what it really was: the good, the bad, and the parts you’ve been romanticising because they look better from a safe distance.
For me, leaving London once felt like the beginning of the end. Living and working here had always been a dream, and when it finally happened, it felt like I’d unlocked a life achievement. I’d made it… I’d arrived… I finally felt like I belonged.
And “home,” at least in my mind, has never been just a postcode. It’s a feeling. Comfort. Excitement. That quiet sense of absence when you’re not there. I’ve lived in plenty of places across the UK, but only one place ever gave me that feeling and that was London.
I was only here for two years, but it left its mark. The chaos isn’t for everyone, but for me, stepping off the train at Euston Station still gives me a weird rush of warmth. A sense of arrival. Even now, more than five years later, part of my brain still says, You’re home, while the rest of me quietly reminds it, I no longer pay London rent.
Truthfully, those years were some of the happiest of my life. My career was on an upward trajectory, I lived in waterside apartments with skyline views, and I had a diverse group of friends from every background imaginable. Experiences I simply wouldn’t have had if I’d stayed in the north of England my entire life.
Leaving London was one of the hardest decisions I’d made at the time. The drive away was genuinely heart breaking. With my car packed full of accumulated junk and questionable life choices, the buildings slowly shrank, the lights dimmed, and before I knew it, it was just fields and motorway ahead. I told myself it would be worth it. I was leaving for my (now ex) wife. A sacrifice made with the best intentions.
What I didn’t realise was that leaving my happy place would quietly plant seeds of sadness and resentment that hung around far longer than expected. And it wasn’t until my marriage ended that I finally asked myself the uncomfortable question: Were those sacrifices actually worth it?
So last week, for the first time since my divorce, I booked an overpriced train ticket and went back “home.” The lights were just as bright. The buildings just as beautiful. My old friends felt unchanged—like I’d simply popped out for milk and accidentally taken five years.
Riding the DLR back to my old neighbourhood, I was full of excitement. Ready to relive my London life, even if only for a weekend.
And that’s exactly what I did. I retraced old routes, ate at my favourite spots, revisited familiar hangouts, and soaked it all in.
But here’s the part I didn’t expect.
It didn’t feel the same.
Not because London had changed—but because I had.
My priorities have shifted. My life has softened in different ways. London suddenly felt big and a little lonely. My support system wasn’t here. And I found myself appreciating the life I’ve built now—the space, the slower pace, the comforts I once would’ve traded in a heartbeat for a Zone 2 shoebox and a skyline view.
That’s when it clicked. London will always feel magical—not because it was magic, but because of the memories I made there.
But I don’t want to live in the past to feel happy again.
I want to make new memories. Live new experiences. Find new magic.
And honestly… that feels like growth.
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