Travelling Light.

Oh it’s been a little while hasn’t it. Almost five months to the day since I last posted on this little corner of the internet. I’m not quite sure where to start, but I suppose I’ll start by saying “Life eh?”. So much has happened in the last few months and again I find myself in a transition period, about to step into something new. So before we go forward, let’s go back a little in time. I have a cup of tea beside me as I write this, please join me in drinking something as this will be a wordy one.

If you would have told me at age 20, that i at age 30, would have purchased my first home in London alone  – I would have laughed in your face, and then asked why and how did I do it alone. “The best laid schemes of mice and men gan’ aft agley” – Robert Burns. It has been such an interesting, heartbreaking and sometimes restorative task going back into time and comparing my life goals then versus now. 20 year old me penned dreamily ‘a three bedroom house in north west london with a green garden kitted out entirely with wren, made, loaf and more. I thought that I’d have a handsome devoted husband, whose dark brown eyes would see me and the space behind my flesh, loving me in the sweet silly way husbands adored their partners in early 2000’s chic flicks. I thought at thirty I’d have borne at least one chubby cheeked kinky haired child by now – but also somehow I’d be managing a high flying career as an architect and creative making as close to six figures as possible. In reality, 30 year old me bought a small flat in south east London, with enough space for one, a teeny balcony that catches the morning light and a kitchen that has been badly space planned – but perfect for this version of me, who missed the boat on boyfriends, and then fiancés and then husbands and so every few months signs up to hinge, lasts three days and then promptly deletes her account again, realising that maybe in 2022 it is better to just keep walking this path called life solo. Perfect for this version of me who some evenings rubs her hands over the scars lining the outline of her uterus wondering how she would have been as a mother, thinking of her upcoming myomectomy as fat tears slide down her face, but comforting herself in the understanding that motherhood can sometimes take other routes. Perfect for this version of me who is currently working at a prestigious architecture practice but feels the heaviness of being ‘the only one’, the pressures of working in unfamiliar territory, and the embarrassment of not being ‘hard’. This version of me who comes home to her tiny space that envelopes her in light, and warmth and comfort after a long day. A perfectly imperfect space that I am making a home for myself.

But if I’m honest, and can I be honest? After all the ‘well done’s and the ‘so proud of you for doing it alone’s, comes the reality of it all. The bills I saw coming, and I had carefully squirrelled away pennies for, the sheer amount of cleaning surprised me, but the loneliness – the loneliness over these last two months… has floored me. I find myself becoming undone as day turns to night, I close my work laptop, take off my clothes and lie in bed not quite sure what to do with myself. I watch reruns of my comfort shows, sit on tiktok for hours and ignore the laundry I need to put away. Some nights are better than others and I find slivers of joy between dancing in my kitchen in just a t-shirt and pants, or from watering the many plants crowding the already small window sills. . Other nights I fight off shadows that whisper untruths into my ears as the sky turns from blue to inky black flecked with shimmering stars in the distance. I lie reading and then I’m overwhelmed by tears that force their way out of eyelids squeezed shut and I try to bury the hollow feeling inside my chest  and so I sit in my this space, this half good, half bad wilderness wondering whether this is just an adjustment period or whether I will feel this empty forever. I see joy in the distance, but this quick sand called depression has a firm grip around my waist and I am using every part of my body to try and clamber out towards safety. 

Maybe the word I’m looking for is grief. 

And so a familiar Friday evening comes around again. This time balmy, soft, cloying. The clock strikes six but I don’t get up from my desk, even when I feel my colleagues disappearing into the evening. I keep my eyes glued to the screen wondering how long I can stay in the office until I can’t, and so I busy myself with a task that doesn’t need resolving until Monday. I pull out a roll of tracing paper and draw until the lines begin to muddy and my eyes start to prick. An hour and a half later and I have to leave, so I avoid the tube and start walking until I find somewhere quiet enough for me to have dinner – just me. And I do, it’s a Nigerian restaurant about fifteen minutes away from the office. I sit and chew quietly whilst scrolling through Tiktok whilst my thoughts drift to holidays and wanting to be somewhere warm, somewhere… not here. In between the cracks, I’ve found myself in a season of silence, not quite sure what I want to do with life, not quite sure where I fit, and a strange fear of being forgotten as I make my way back home alone.

A few days later and I have a hospital appointment. I hear things that I do not want my specialist to say. And when I get home I notice that there is a softness to my body that is unfamiliar. I stand naked in front of the mirror and explore. First I see my face, warm and brown with cheeks that have the residual roundness of steroids and hormone injections to fight a battle that has already been lost, almond shaped eyes with pools of brown that twinkle in the sunshine, full lips that wrap teeth that are just a little wonkier than I’d like in the front. I frown at my breasts, age and weight gain have left them hanging lower than I’d like – overripe fruit covered in a light spider web of light brown lines, I see my stomach and the frown turns to a grimace. Soft and fleshy, except for an area that is tender and hard waiting to be exhumed. I pinch the rolls that have found their way to my sides and I think about what I ate that day and how I could eat less tomorrow then shake my head as if to rid myself of the thought. My hands touch fine hairs at the base of my stomach and I wonder if I’ll ever feel anything other than a doctors sterile equipment in this area again. And suddenly I flush, and crave love. 

The optimist in me is ever hopeful though, and lately I’ve gotten into this habit of asking God to send me a sign, anything and bizarrely without fail, every single time I’ve asked for a sign, what follows is one of the most beautiful sunsets ever. Not quite burning bush but I’ll take it. I’m still not quite sure with what I’m doing with my life at the moment and for some reason thirty feels as precarious as 21, a vast expanse of time and opportunity in front of me but not a single clue of where I see myself at age 35, or 40 and so on. Maybe the beauty in this strange silent and lonely period is that this is a time to quietly lean into myself and rediscover myself because I haven’t felt like ‘me’ in a very long time. Maybe travelling light is the key to expanding this chapter, because Lord know I’m tired.

In life we all have to walk alone, so here’s my journey back to myself. One solitary step at a time. I hope I find me again.