I Left Everything Behind at 23 — Here’s What I Learned Starting Over

The morning I boarded a bus with nothing but a backpack and a dog-eared journal, my stomach churned with equal parts terror and exhilaration. At twenty‑three, the life I had carefully assembled felt like a skin that no longer fit: a corporate job with a title that looked impressive on paper but drained me dry, a relationship that had become more routine than romance, a town where the same streets and the same faces had begun to feel like walls closing in. I told myself that leaving was reckless, immature, irresponsible. I also knew that if I didn't leave then, I might never find out who I could be if I stepped outside of everyone's expectations—including my own.

People love to romanticize starting over, as if it’s a montage of sunrises and epiphanies. Reality was far messier. I arrived in a new city with no job lined up, no friends, and nowhere permanent to live. For the first few weeks, I slept on a futon in a sublet the size of a closet. My savings dwindled faster than I’d anticipated as I paid deposit after deposit, first for a room in a house with strangers and then for public transportation that seemed to chew through my small wad of cash. I stood in long lines at job fairs with a resume that now felt like it belonged to someone else. I drank instant coffee on park benches and wondered if the uncertainty I’d chosen was any better than the certainty I’d left behind.

When you strip your life down to what you can carry, you learn quickly what’s essential. The three suitcases I had shipped to myself a month later felt like relics from a past life. I sold the heels I used to wear to meetings and used the money to buy a secondhand bike. I discovered that I didn't need half the things I had once considered necessary. The absence of clutter made space for something else: stillness. With fewer distractions, I started to hear my own thoughts more clearly. I began to journal in the mornings before sunrise, filling pages with questions instead of to‑do lists. Who am I when I'm not trying to be impressive? What does joy actually feel like? What would I do if I wasn't afraid of failing?

Work did come, but not in the form I expected. I took a job bussing tables at a local café and, later, freelancing for a small magazine editing articles about local artists and events. I taught English to adults twice my age and learned humility in the process. Each role came with its own small victories: the first time a customer complimented me by name, the first piece I wrote that a stranger shared on social media, the first student who thanked me for helping them pronounce a word. None of these moments came with a raise or a title, but they filled me with a sense of purpose I’d never felt in my previous career.

Loneliness was a companion I had not invited but learned to sit with. There were nights when I lay on a mattress on the floor and cried because I missed the ease of my old friends, the familiarity of shared history, my mother's cooking. It was tempting to scroll through social media and believe everyone else was miles ahead, wedding photos and graduate degrees filling my feed while I considered whether I could afford fresh fruit that week. On better days, loneliness softened into solitude. I took long walks down streets that didn't know my footsteps yet and found comfort in anonymity. I read books I’d never had time for and rediscovered music that made my heart swell.

Perhaps the most unexpected part of starting over was the people who showed up along the way. There was the barista who slipped me free pastries when she knew I couldn’t afford lunch and, eventually, became one of my closest friends. There was the older woman in my yoga class who taught me how to knit and listened without judgment when I admitted how scared I was. There were fellow transplants at the community garden who understood the disorienting mix of hope and homesickness that comes with uprooting your life. They became my chosen family, the ones who celebrated my small wins and sat with me when things fell apart.

Each lesson I learned seemed simple until I experienced it: that asking for help is not a sign of weakness but of community; that success is not only the milestones you can brag about but also the quiet endurance that keeps you showing up; that reinvention isn't a one‑time event but a thousand tiny choices every day. I discovered that my worth was not tied to my productivity. Some days, just getting out of bed and leaving the house was an act of courage. Other days, I found flow and energy I didn’t know I had. Starting over taught me to move at my own pace rather than racing to keep up with an invisible timeline.

Two years after I left everything behind, I went back to visit my hometown. The streets looked the same, but I felt different walking them. I met up with old friends, and we laughed about memories that felt like they belonged to different versions of ourselves. One asked if I had figured out my life yet, and I surprised myself by saying, “No, but I’ve figured out that I’m allowed to keep changing it.” I realized that there is no finish line to personal growth; there is only the willingness to keep listening to that quiet voice inside you that says, it's time to turn the page.

If you’re thinking of starting over, know this: the fear won't go away just because you ignore it. It sits at the edge of your comfort zone, daring you to stay small. Taking the leap doesn't mean you won't land on your face sometimes—you will. There will be days you regret everything, and there will be days you marvel at the view from the new world you created. Let both be true. Pack light, both literally and emotionally. Trust that the skills and strengths you built in your old life will come with you even if your furniture and relationships don’t. Be patient with yourself. Growth seldom follows a straight line.

At twenty‑three, leaving was an act of desperation; now, looking back, I see it as an act of love. I loved myself enough to believe I deserved a life that felt like mine. Starting over wasn’t about proving anything to anyone else. It was about unlearning the belief that I had to stick with something just because I had invested time in it. It was about creating room for surprises, for friendships, for passions I hadn’t discovered yet. It was about learning that home isn’t a place you abandon or return to—it’s something you carry within you. And sometimes, the only way to find it is to let go of everything else and start walking.