If I’m being completely honest, I think I’ve cried more since I moved to London than before; before when I was stuck in a rut, in a job I felt very unhappy in, working for a man who really made me question the morals of certain individuals out there. It wasn’t a good place to be in, not entirely. And I thought that what I was working towards would be. I thought that I would move to the big city, the one I’d been pining for since graduation, and that everything would miraculously fit into place. I would be happy and fulfilled, or at least a damn sight closer to feeling it than I did stuck in the South West in my less than ideal circumstances.
But here I am, confessing that actually I’ve probably sobbed and crumbled more since I moved than…yeah, we’re dubbing it ‘before’, apparently. Like the bible timeline, but less, I don’t know, miracles. And that confession somehow feels like an admission that I’ve failed. I’m not sure you can consider it a failure, feeling a bit sad, feeling a bit lost and a lot lonely. Isn’t that what it is to be in your twenties in 2019? But still it remains that some part of me has somehow failed.