Somewhere in the past three years I fell out of love with my life. That sounds dramatic, it wasn’t, it was gradual and only in areas. However these areas mattered. I had been commuting to the city for 15 years. 15 years of nearly 6 hours travelling a day. This used to be fine when I loved the city as much as my weekends on the coast, however I no longer loved London. I had completely outgrown our relationship and not even realised. I longed for time to breathe.
Initially when our love faded I fought it. I had known what I wanted to do for two decades and worked hard to achieve it. Work placements had replaced gap years and jobs had replaced weekends. It sounds ridiculous to say it but I took pleasure in telling strangers what I did. My career was a huge part of my identity.
In July I returned to London after seven months maternity leave with my second child, little Max. One morning I took out my phone and worked out how many hours a year I spend travelling too and from work. The calculator said 52 days. I had been spending almost two months every year travelling too and from the office. Something final hit me and that was it. Something had to change.