What I Left Behind

What I Left Behind

I left everything behind, honestly.

This blog isn’t some cute “look at me living my best life” blog. This blog is the raw, unfiltered truth of my life—no matter how painful, how messy, how wonderful, or how damn distasteful it gets. I’ve hidden behind poetic language and flowery characters for years. And yes, they’re beautiful. I love them. But they’ve also been a shield. A way to tell my truth without showing my face.

You can read anything I write and see exactly who I am—if you’re paying attention. But a blog? A blog demands something different. It demands me—unmasked, unapologetic, fully present.

At first, I wanted AI to generate 50 blog posts, slap them on my site, and be done with it. But that’s not who I want to be anymore. That’s not who I am anymore.

I used to care so damn much what people thought—friends, lovers, family. I was scared of what they’d say if I stood in the fullness of my truth. But judgment? Judgment’s a two-way street. And it’s the stories we tell ourselves that end up imprisoning us. Stories like, You can’t leave, You’re too old to change, That dream is for someone else.

Nah. I’m not living in that prison anymore.

I left the United States—Atlanta, Georgia, to be exact—because I never felt like I belonged. Even as a child, I always felt… other. Different. While other kids played, my nose was buried in books. I read everything. By four years old, I was devouring stories. In kindergarten, teachers were already praising my writing. I’d preen with pride, already knowing—even at five or six—that I was meant for something bigger.

Books were my escape. They were my compass. Tolkien, Angelou, Poe, Wordsworth… they cracked the world open for me. At seven years old, I knew—knew—I wanted to be a writer.

Then life happened.

I stopped believing in myself. I swapped out dreams for practicality. Thought maybe I’d become a lawyer or a police officer. Maybe working for the government or climbing the corporate ladder would be enough.

It wasn’t.

In college, I wanted desperately to do a study abroad program. But fear held me back. I didn’t go. I didn’t leap.

Not until I was in my early 30s did I finally leave the country—Canada, then Mexico, the Bahamas. But it was that first trip to London, England… that was the moment I felt like I was finally home.

It was eerie how much I knew the place. I walked those streets like I’d lived there in another life. I didn’t need directions. I barely needed maps. I knew the rhythm, the Tube, the flow of the people. And I knew—I knew—I was meant to be there.

But life said “not yet.” Or maybe, I did.

I was a single mom of one working in a job I hated, in a system I didn’t believe in. And I was engaged to a man who, through his job, had the chance to move us abroad… to London. My dream. My city.

And he said no.

Even when I begged, he said no. That broke something in me—but it also planted something deeper. I promised myself that one day, I would live in London. Not because of a man. Not because of a job. But because of me. Because I chose it.

And now?

I did it. I made it.

Not just to London, but to a life I love. A life where I’ve seen countries I only dreamed about. A life where I write, travel, breathe deeply, and live freely. A life that’s still messy. Still imperfect. But one that feels like mine.

Every day, I wake up and choose joy. And that? That makes all the waiting, the pain, the loss, the struggle… worth it.