On Reimagining a Life
For more than five decades, I was a City Girl–through-and-through.
I resisted my exit from London at first, so strong was the internal urban identity that I’d unconsciously cultivated for so long. The City Girl intellectual, cultured, interesting persona of sorts. Part Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat in the air (that vignette dates me, I admit), part Carrie Bradshaw, sipping cosmos as she navigated Manhattan—just as I did in my own West Village, NYC neighbourhood.
For years I tapped out feature stories, writing and editing glossy magazines—a decade in New York, even longer in London. Then, I retrained as a psychotherapist, shifting from telling stories to listening to them.
But identities, like landscapes, change. And six months ago, I did something I never thought I would—I left London, relocating with my two black cats to a village in a leafy suburb in Surrey. I’d been considering the move for a while, having spent my entire life living and working in huge cities—Los Angeles, New York, and London.
As I considered leaving London, a part of me worried that I’d somehow be less “me” if I relinquished the grip I held on city life – and that it held on me. I worried I’d be too far from my daughter, who lives in London. I worried I’d find life in a village too small, too quiet, too far removed from everything.
In hindsight, my fears were perhaps misplaced.
As I stepped off the train to visit the village that would eventually become my new home, I was immersed in glorious birdsong, and fell under the olfactory spell of lavender and jasmine as I wandered down the quiet lane near the station. Within seconds, my shoulders dropped and I breathed deeply. I smiled, and as I passed others, they smiled back—something that rarely happens in London as city dwellers rush from place to place, faces often glued to their hand-held screens.
Here in my neighbourhood there are few sirens, no one yelling drunkenly at night on the street, less litter on the ground, and people clean up after their dogs. Yes, most of the shops are shut on Sundays, but I’ve long relinquished the 24/7 life I lived in New York City (including picking up an early Sunday edition of the Times on my way back home at 5 am!).
When I need a city fix, I get on the train and go into London. But there are many times I’m perfectly happy to do nothing. To open the windows and see the ducks, swans, and geese swim by. To witness the changes of the seasons up-close as the river changes - sometimes cold, fierce and high, other times lilting lazily, carrying paddle boarders and kayakers in the warmer weather, their paddling the only real “traffic” that passes by my door.
Life is different now, and that’s okay.
I feel calmer, and that’s a great benefit. As an internal family systems therapist, I’m well aware—particularly as I get older—of how my 'parts' react to noise, chaos, hustle, and bustle. And I listen to them, really listen to them, when they say that they need calm.
In my 20s I considered myself an extrovert, the name Carl Jung gave to individuals who are energised by social interactions and the external world. (His theory suggests that introverts direct their energy inward, while extroverts direct their energy outward). But on reflection, all these years later, I wonder if that self-proclaimed moniker was true—or if it was simply a role I took on to avoid the fear of missing out.
Maybe I was simply adapting to my environment. Cities demand a certain level of engagement, a willingness to push forward, to navigate the crowds, to revel in the energy and the endless opportunities. It’s a lifestyle that is both thrilling and exhausting. And for years, I embraced it fully, with zero regrets.
But now, with the river outside my window, the gentle rustling of trees, and the absence of a pressing need to be anywhere but here, I’ve allowed myself to embrace a quieter existence. And in that quiet, I’ve discovered a version of myself that was always there—waiting for the chance to breathe.
There’s a certain joy in the simplicity of village life. The neighbourhood bakery. The familiarity of faces, the slower pace, the understanding that not everything needs to be rushed. I’ve traded late-night dinners for early morning walks, the honking of traffic for the chirping of birds, and the constant stimulation of city life for a deeper appreciation of stillness–and a far less frazzled nervous system.
That’s not to say I don’t love London anymore—I do. I commute some days to work with my clients, and to see friends and family when the desire arises. But I love London differently now. I no longer feel the need to be in the thick of it every day. Instead, I get to choose when and how I engage. When I need to be surrounded by others, the city is there, but I can return again to the quiet, and perhaps for the first time in my life, I understand the value of balance.
This move wasn’t just about geography; it was about a shift in mindset. I used to think that leaving the city meant leaving behind a part of myself. But in reality, I’ve simply made space for another part to emerge. A part that values presence over productivity, depth over distraction, and peace over perpetual motion.
Life changes, and so do we. Sometimes, the most important thing we can do is listen when a quieter life calls—and answer.
