So, you started your life over in your 30s… no, just me who made that reckless decision?
And a reckless decision it truly was. Waking up one day and deciding to move to London sounds glamorous, but trust me, it’s been more of a comedy of errors than a seamless transition. I am type A to the nth degree—a planner, an organizer—but I don’t actually remember the exact moment I decided to do this. It would be better described as me casually telling someone I was planning on moving to London, and then my subconscious decided to, well, subconsciously make the small, then very big steps to get me to this moment.
This moment being riding in a pet taxi on my way to London. Raffi, my faithful and ever-neurotic pup, and I had to detour through Paris, the city of love, but the only romance we had was with paperwork and the complexity of pet regulations.
When we finally arrived in London, we checked into the hotel that promised comfort amid chaos. It felt like the perfect home away from home away from home. But as I collapsed onto the bed, I couldn't help but wonder, what the hell am I doing? Starting over at this stage of my life? Surely there’s a less dramatic way. I felt stuck in a coming-of-age film, only in my version, the age is mid-thirties. However, the fear of staying put back home quickly swept over me, and the thought of letting life slip me by was far more daunting. So here we are…
As any Londoner will tell you, finding a flat, let alone a decent one, is nearly impossible. It was akin to online dating—a whirlwind of first impressions, hopeful expectations, and the looming anxiety that the photos might be filtered beyond recognition. Each virtual tour left me more anxious than the last. Would it look like the photos? What would the neighborhood be like? I finally picked one sight unseen, relying solely on a few photos and a gut feeling. I wish I could say my gut was always right, but sadly, that’s not always the case… except for this time, thank god. The moment I stepped inside, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. This would be my new home. A place that wasn't just "good enough," but exactly what I needed. The neighborhood was bustling with the kind of energy that makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger, the kind of place where even the pigeons seem to have a purpose.
Settling in, however, was another matter. With my furniture still making its way across the Atlantic, I turned to the trusty blue-and-yellow haven of IKEA. To reduce the echo of loneliness (re: my voice bouncing off the empty walls), I assembled a couch and a small dining table… Picture me, armed with an Allen wrench, piecing together my new life one confusing instruction at a time, then realizing my temporary setup looked like a minimalist art installation. For a minute, I thought maybe I didn’t need all my stuff after all. Maybe I could be a true minimalist. Reality quickly knocked me over the head, and while minimalism is cute in theory, I need my things. They… complete me.
With the basics in place, it was time to play tourist in my new city. Naturally, Notting Hill was first on the list—I mean, what self-respecting rom-com lover wouldn’t start there? Walking through its iconic streets, I felt a blend of awe and disbelief. Was this really my life now? Do I really live in London? It was a question that would continue to arise every day going forward… even in the very much unromanticized settings, like doing something as mundane as grocery shopping, wondering why British supermarkets hide their eggs in the baking aisle instead of the fridge.
As the first couple of weeks went on, I continued to treat London as if I were a first-time visitor and not a newbie local. I went to Covent Garden and indulged in a bit of theater, Agatha Christie's "The Mousetrap," reveling in the timeless charm of a good whodunit. I spent afternoons exploring iconic spots like Tower Bridge and the streets of Chelsea, each new discovery adding a layer of familiarity to this sprawling, historic city. It was in these moments, dodging tourists and taking in the sights, that I started to feel a part of the city’s fabric, like an extra in someone else’s vacation photos.
Days turned into weeks, and I found myself adapting. London was starting to feel like my own, with Raffi and me finding our rhythms, our favorite parks, our little routines. The city was no longer just a backdrop; it was becoming a character in my story. I was becoming a Londoner, albeit one who still had a Canadian accent and a penchant for apologizing when anyone bumped into me. It was the little things that made me feel at home, like discovering the best walking route where Raffi could pretend to be brave around squirrels or finding a café that didn’t judge me for ordering a second croissant.
Of course, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Doubts lingered, homesickness crept in, and the question of who I was in this new context loomed large. But each day brought new discoveries, reaffirming that this leap was worth it. The real magic wasn’t in grand adventures but in the tiny, everyday moments. Morning walks with Raffi where we both pretended we knew where we were going, stumbling into a bookstore that I swore I'd spend hours reading in but ended up buying yet another pastry, and the challenge of making small talk without sounding like a tourist. These seemingly random moments were the stitches holding the fabric of my new life together.
So here I am, the newest confused face in a city that’s slowly becoming home. London isn’t just the setting of my story; it’s the unpredictable co-star. As I fumble through this new life, I’m reminded it’s about the courage to keep moving forward, even if it means not losing your sanity over an IKEA instruction manual or learning that “you alright?” is just a greeting, not a genuine inquiry into my mental state.
In the end, maybe life isn’t about finding yourself but about creating yourself among the new beginnings, unexpected detours, and the stories yet to be written. And who knows? Maybe one day I'll even figure out which way to look when crossing the street.
**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”. 🎬✍🏻📚
There you are 😀. Millie-Dog & I have been wondering how you & Raffi have been getting on.
Welcome to the UK - May this new start be all you need it to be. 🐾