Settling In: Life in London

I realized the other day the last time I posted a proper blog update was October. Which feels about

right. October was still “arrival,” still adrenaline, still the novelty of the newness of London. Now March is nearly over, and the city has stopped feeling like a destination and started feeling like a life.

I’ve settled in, at least as much as I can while still being new. I have routines now. Little rituals. Certain streets I prefer. A café I’m a regular at, the chef always coming out to greet me when I visit. I know which corners to cut to save time, and which parks to go to when I need my nervous system to unclench.

I’ve been exploring, too—museums, parks, monuments, cemeteries. Wandering without an agenda, letting the city show me what it wants to. I’ve learned the shape of my days here: class, writing, walking, small errands that somehow feel meaningful just because they’re mine. I’ve started to understand the city the way you understand a person: not by the big grand gestures, but by the repeated small moments.

I’ve also made acquaintances. Not quite the kind of friendships that feel like a home base yet, but enough that I’m not completely untethered. People I can trade a laugh with, grab a drink with after class, or recognize on sight. I’ve even been asked out a few times—usually much younger guys, which makes me laugh a little, because I’m not sure what I give off that says yes, please approach me with your soft jawline and your optimism. It’s flattering. It’s also… not what I’m looking for.

And in the middle of all of the mayhem of transition, I got a distinction on the first class I finished. I’m still letting that sink in. It feels like proof that says: you belong here. You didn’t come all this way for nothing.

But here’s the truth I don’t always want to admit: even with all the beauty, all the movement, all the “look how brave you are,” it can still be lonely.

London is a city built for company. Even when you’re surrounded by people, there’s a particular kind of ache that comes with doing the good parts alone. Seeing something incredible and not having anyone beside you to elbow and say look at that. Laughing at something on the street and having no one to share the joke with. Walking home in the cold and wishing there was a couch waiting, and arms, and an easy kind of warmth.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering too hard if being who I want to be is worth the solitude. If building a life that fits means accepting that it might not come with the comforting shape of “normal.” If freedom is always going to feel like this—beautiful, and expensive.

And then I remember something that still stops me in my tracks.

One of the last things my great grandma asked me on her deathbed was: “Did I do enough?”

Not “was I good enough?”

Not “did they love me?”

Not “did I make the right choices?”

Just: Did I do enough?

I think about that question when I start to doubt myself. When I start bargaining with comfort. When I start imagining a life that’s smaller, safer, easier to explain. And every time, my resolve settles back into place.

I don’t want to get to the end of my life and realize I spent it trying to be palatable.

So I keep going.

Even when it’s lonely.

Even when it’s hard.

Even when I’m doing it without the kind of companionship I thought I’d have by now.

Because the truth is, I’m not just here to survive. I’m here to live. And I want to be able to answer her question with something real.

Not just: yes.

But: yes—and I didn’t apologize for it.