On Moving
When I accepted my law school offer and decided to move to London (in the middle of the pandemic, I might add), I started on a mission to find a flat. A space to call my own in a big city that felt both foreign and exciting. I eventually found a flat located in a quaint pocket in Shoreditch, just down the road from Old Street Station. The flat was a small one-bedroom apartment located on the second floor of a four-storey Victorian mansion block. The hallways were narrow, and the stairwells were dark. While the flat itself had been recently renovated, the large, single-pane 19th-century windows revealed the building’s age.
On one sunny morning in mid-August 2020, I arrived at the place that I’d call home for the next two years. It was electrifying. Not the flat itself, rather the feeling of living alone. The freedom of living alone (and all the complexities that come with it as a young woman in her early 20’s). The idea of moving myself, my life, and my belongings across the world—some 5713.17 kilometres away—was invigorating. And there I was, standing in my 400-square-foot flat; I officially moved to London.
It's interesting to reflect on this time as I pack up my belongings in anticipation for my next chapter. As I clear out my closets and wipe the cobwebs off the windows, I can’t help but reflect on where I was—who I was—when I moved into this flat. At 23-years-old, I felt invincible. I felt like I knew everything there was to know about myself. And yet, upon reflection, I can’t help but smile when I think about that naïve 23-year-old version of myself. I think about the lessons that I’ve learned over the last two years. The harsh reality checks that I’ve encountered. The terrifying yet formative experiences that I’ve learned from being a young woman living (alone) in a large city. And, of course, the inevitable comic of errors which played out in that 400-square-foot flat.
There was that one time I fell asleep in beautifully sequinned gown because I didn’t have a flat mate to assist me with the zipper which ran down the spine of the dress. Or that time (or the couple of times) when I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor in tears only to realise that crying alone is like a tree falling in a forest; did it really happen if there was no one there to witness it? I can assure you that solo cries are significantly less cathartic than movies make them out to be. And, of course, that time when I sliced my thumb open while mindlessly prying open a can. I quickly learned that I had to stop the bleeding and bandage myself up before I could begin to whine about the pain (while preventing myself from fainting and simultaneously dry-heaving into the bin).
In the end I was able to unzip my dress, soothe myself during the (many) solo-cry sessions—even if that meant shedding a few tears, seated on the kitchen floor (for dramatic effect, of course). And I even put those camp counsellor skills to the test when I wrapped my thumb well enough to avoid a trip to the ER.
Between all the oddities that came from living alone in that little flat on Paul Street, the countless hours spent studying at the desk in the living-room-turned-office, and the many (many) times I contemplated using the kitchen sink as a bathtub to soak away my anxieties when a hot shower failed to do the trick, I learned a lot about myself.
That’s the funny thing about being an adult. You realise that home is not a place but a feeling. And it was in this little flat on Paul Street where I learned that I needed to find ‘home’ within myself before I could look for it in someone else.
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