Leaving community

In the last 3 years, I have built, entirely by accident, a nearly perfect life. A wonderful home by the sea, a full and active community, friendships that make me feel seen and genuinely loved, work that I didn’t know could exist but that I have created just to suit me.

This should be enough. That is the thought I keep telling myself.

When you build a life, you make a community, a home, a rhythm. There is an expectation that you will keep it. Keep walking that path, digging roots further and further. But what if you're not digging roots, what if you're just digging? Especially when the world outside your perfect bubble seems to be going a bit (majorly) sideways.

I called my mum.

My mum has an incredible skill. Just when I think we couldn’t be more different, she says something that makes it clear as day that I am just a poor imitation of her. We met, and almost the second I saw her, she uttered the words that had been rumbling around my head but I hadn’t dared say out loud, ‘I’m living in the wrong town’ She was talking about herself. She was born and raised in London, as was I. There is something unshakable about being a Londoner, I think it’s as close to national pride as I can feel. Belonging to no group, but all. The settling through constant change. The anonymity and the freedom that come from it, only being seen on your terms. Only being acknowledged when truly forced.

As opposed to this morning, when every single one of the baristas who work in the local coffee shop commented on my wearing a jacket (don’t get me wrong, I love all of them, even ended up on nights out with one or two of them), nevertheless, in London, that would be completely unheard of. And I know they say it because they know me, they see me on good days and bad, they genuinely care in that special way communities do, filling the gap between friendship and strangers. Most of the time, I welcome it, their attention. Because it is a precious thing to be cared about, noticed, even in a small way.

I have clothes in my wardrobe I haven’t worn since moving to this town, because I know I will be asked about my reasons for being ‘so dressed up’, but I mean, really, does a wool coat warrant that level of inquisitiveness? The first month I was here, I wore a tie-dye jumpsuit, something I loved and had waited months to buy, and on my first trip out the house in it, not 100 yards from my door, a wonderful little old lady raised her walking cane and hollered at me across the street in unadulterated support of my outfit. It was a beautiful life-affirming moment. We laughed, I still think about her with a smile, and shortly after I gave the jumpsuit away.

I have been seen, and accepted, and loved by this town. In a way that I treasure. But that doesn’t suit me.

I miss the apathy of London.

I haven’t done stand-up comedy in nearly 4 years. The idea that I would ever do a comedy set in this town is outrageous. I need to be shit for a bit, I need to be rejected, to fail, to be the worst in the room, to improve. And I need to do that in front of a crowd that does not care about me at all.

The brilliant thing about Folkestone is that it is a town of creatives, artists and makers constantly churning out artworks on a daily basis. I certainly have created more here than I have anywhere else. But I’m not sure I’ve made anything good? The focus of this town seems to be done is better than not. Which I agree with. However, for those of us who want to improve. It’s maybe not the place.

I have never felt more understood, respected, held, defended, creative, healthy, optimistic, steady, seen, or loved, than I do here in Folkestone. So now it’s time to go? It seems the opposite of what I ‘should’ be doing. But I’m going to do it anyway.

It’s worth noting, I can’t bring myself to tell my town I’m leaving. I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. The closest I’ve gotten is ‘I’m looking for work in London’. I can sense the betrayal. There are people here who will miss me. Truly and genuinely miss me. In a way, my London friends never got the opportunity to do. It will be an honour and a burden to be missed. But it’s one I can’t quite bring myself to face just yet. I know they will carry on, I won’t be replaced, but the small ecosystem will find balance.

I’ve never felt responsibility like this before, responsibility to my town, to my community.

But I also feel a responsibility to my mum. In her own words, it’s too late for her. It’s an unchangeable choice for her. But for me, I still have my freedom. I owe it to her and myself to live in the city that we both love so much. I owe her an escape and a retreat. If I can build something in London. She can have a part of it too.

In summary, I’m trying really hard to say this without sounding like a whiny, spoiled nightmare. However, my life is wonderful and I am spoiled. And I plan to continue to live an increasingly wonderful life for as long as I can.