I’ve been moving since 2020.
UK. Germany. Luxembourg. Canada. Iceland.
Over and over again.
Different places.
Same pattern.
It looked like travel.
Flights. Trips. New cities.
Something to break the routine.
But looking at it now…
I wasn’t going anywhere.
I was circling.
Back to London.
Back to Manchester.
Back to the same life—just spaced out differently.
I thought leaving meant movement.
It doesn’t.
You can change countries
and keep the same constraints.
You can get on a plane
and bring everything with you.
I wasn’t leaving.
I was interrupting it.
And interruptions feel like progress
until you realize you’re starting from the same place every time.
That’s what I’m trying to understand now.
Not how to go somewhere else.
How to actually leave.
— a. nomad