Dear Internet, I’m Heartbroken

Photo by Magda Ehlers

I’m heartbroken, not by a man, thankfully, but by a dream unfulfilled.

The dream was to move to London, and it seemed like everything was going to plan.

I had found a place, my manager was happy for me to move offices, and I’d started making the rounds and saying goodbye to my friends. Hearing how much I was going to be missed did wonders for my ego.

I was feeling excited, saving places to visit and making notes of what I’d need as soon as I arrived in my new place.

Surely, nothing could go wrong.

But two weeks before I was meant to move, I received a message: “I’m so sorry, I have bad news…”

At the time, I was walking through a department store, wading through the furniture section. I saw the preview of the message and then sat down to read it in full.

Over the next few weeks, people would ask me what happened, and it would be hard to articulate. Partly because it wasn’t straightforward, and partly because I couldn’t bear to rehash the complexity again and again. The short version? She couldn’t rent me the room anymore and was withdrawing the tenancy agreement.

How silly the contract was now. Legally binding, yet powerless to prevent the reality: I had two weeks to find somewhere else.

What hurts the most are all the “meant to’s” I’ve accumulated.

I was meant to be living in London by now.

I was meant to be working from the London office.

I was meant to be seeing Trevor Noah at a Waterstones’ event for his new book, but I ended up giving my ticket to my cousin. Another round trip to London before the year’s end felt like too much.

I was tired.

And what made me feel even more drained was how this was just the latest in a long line of disappointments. It felt like the final straw.

Recently, I answered a survey that asked if I was a self-motivated individual. The scale was from 1 to 10. There should’ve been an option for “used to be, but life has knocked all the motivation out of me.”

Maybe that would’ve been too long?

It seems silly to have placed so much hope in a move, but I truly believed it was what I needed. I thought it would be the spark to fill me up again, to give me back that zest for life.

I also feel silly about how much it’s affected me. It was just a room. Just an apartment. And though disappointing and inconvenient, it could’ve been worse. It would’ve been a different story if I was facing homelessness.

Time has helped me rethink the whole ordeal.

Maybe it was meant to happen this way, and maybe there’s nothing I could’ve done to change it.

As hard as it is to accept, I have no other explanation for why it unfolded the way it did. Honestly, I wish I’d never found the place to begin with, then I could’ve avoided the emotional rollercoaster of gaining something temporarily to then lose it.

Maybe this experience was meant to teach me something about the familiar pattern I have: thinking that happiness lies somewhere in the future, rather than being something I can cultivate right here, right now.

So, I’ve decided to give up, at least temporarily and trust me when I say I feel better for it. How has that helped? I can explain better in another post. But alongside giving up, I’m looking at ways I can start to create more joy in my life right now, in the very place I’ve been so desperate to leave.

Everything happens for a reason and for now I’m meant to be here.

And while I’m here, I’ll be exploring the city again. So much of it is changing—the landscape feels unrecognisable in some places.

Until I can muster the energy to try again, I’m winding down from an intense year and focusing on things that spark joy and excitement.