I'm starting my life over at 37… and moving to London.
Why I'm Swapping Predictability for Possibility and Moving to London [Hugh Grant Not Included]
I’m 37 and I’ve decided to start my life over. Not for work, not for love, but for life. Because, why not? This isn’t some midlife crisis; it’s more like a quiet realization that I've been stuck in neutral for far too long. There's been this persistent itch, whispering there's more to life than the safe, predictable existence I've been leading.
My life so far? A series of safe bets and calculated moves. I’m the type who generally colors inside the lines, an introvert of the highest order. You know the kind—I’d rather stay in on a Friday night, reorganizing my sock drawer while binge-watching romcoms and having deep conversations with my dog than go to a party. I can tell you exactly where every item in my house is, right down to the emergency chocolate stash behind the cookbooks. Knowing where everything is makes me feel like I'm in control, even if it’s just an illusion that crumbles the moment I lose my keys.
But now, I’m tossing that illusion out the window, packing my collection of self-help books that clearly haven’t helped enough, along with my perpetually puzzled pup, and moving to London. Yes, London—the city of rain, royalty, and the faint hope of bumping into Hugh Grant in a quaint little bookstore.
Do you ever feel like you’ve ended up in the wrong story? That’s been my ongoing thought, the nagging sense that triggered this change. Some mornings, I wake up thinking, “This can’t be it, can it?” Not in a desperate way, but a curious one. So, instead of playing it safe, I’m acting on that curiosity and starting over. Why not at 37? It seems like as good a time as any.
Starting over in your thirties is like being handed a second chance at life, or third, fourth, or even tenth chance in my case. Who knew self-discovery was a lifelong DIY project? It turns out I’m just catching on. But ‘do it yourself’ is spot on—I’m the only one who can make this decision, I’m the only one who can put one foot in front of the other in the right (and often wrong) directions. The spontaneity and terror of it all? That’s exactly what starting over demands.
If you’re anything like me, you had your twenties mapped out: graduate, land a job, get married, buy a house, have kids. Society handed us a blueprint and said, “Here, follow this.” And we did, with the enthusiasm of someone who didn’t realize they could ask, “But what if I don’t want to?” The moment you ask that question, it’s as if life crumples up those blueprints and hands you a blank piece of paper instead.
I always thought that by my thirties, I’d have everything figured out, gliding through life with a well-organized grocery list of achievements. Instead, I’ve been wandering the aisles aimlessly, trying to remember what I came here for and why there's a pineapple in my cart. The problem with lists, especially for a Type-A like me, is they don’t leave room for improvisation, and life, as I’ve learned, requires it. What I started to understand was that the ones who told us we needed to have it all figured out didn’t mention that ‘figuring it out’ doesn’t come with a how-to manual or a deadline.
For someone like me, accustomed to having everything organized and convincing myself life is under control, admitting I don’t have it all figured out is strangely liberating. It’s like a sigh of relief as I toss out the old rulebook that said I should be settled by now. Who made those rules anyway? Someone who clearly never had an existential crisis in the cereal aisle. Maybe the real rule is there are no rules—just the absurdity of thinking anyone ever really knows what they’re doing.
So, London. The idea seemed romantic and exciting, a charming fantasy of cobblestone streets, hidden pastry shops, and casually pretending I understand cricket. Until reality hit, which involved me knee-deep in paperwork and bubble wrap. Trading the familiar for the unknown is exhilarating in theory but also means facing the challenge of finding a flat in a city I’ve only ever spent two weeks in.
London was never part of my master plan, which is probably why it feels like the right decision. I’ve perfected the art of getting stuck in my routines, repeating the same actions over and over because they were predictable. But London is a wild card from the deck of my safe, monotonous life. The realization hit me that I’d been paralyzed by decisions that, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t matter. This move is me stepping out of my comfort zone and breaking free from the choices that kept me there.
There’s an odd mix of exhilaration and terror in starting over. What if I fail? What if this move becomes another chapter in my anthology of questionable life choices? But that’s part of the adventure, isn’t it? Life isn’t about having all the answers; it’s about the stories you collect along the way. I’d rather have the answers to the questions of ‘what if?’ than be forever stuck with the dull certainty of ‘what could have been.’
As I teeter on the edge of my new life, my dog looking as skeptical as ever, I’m ready to trade my predictable existence for something that feels a little more like living. It might be messy and uncertain, but it will be a life lived, and that’s a pretty good start.
**The Friday Club is on the house for the first six weeks! After that, we'll switch to a paid subscription for those who want to stick around and keep this digital camaraderie alive.**
— The Friday Club — A digital hangout where movie nights, shower epiphanies, and life's charming chaos collide. From writer and creator Ash [of @the.ashfiles], expect weekly musings, honest stories, and a reminder that we’re all just winging this thing called “adulthood”. 🎬✍🏻📚