Since arriving in London, I’ve found myself walking more than anything else. Not with the purpose of getting somewhere, but more so just to be somewhere and clear my head. There is such beauty in simplicity, in the mundane, in the ability to walk for hours and feel like I’ve lived 100 different lives.
There are days when I’m not rushing anywhere. I’m not sightseeing, either. I’m just observing. Trying on lives like coats in a shop window: there’s a version of me rushing to her job at a fashion magazine, trench undone, heels too high, already writing the next deadline in her head. Another version walks through Bond Street, a trust fund baby shopping without a care in the world.
The walk
It’s so strange how the city can feel so intimate yet unreachable. I pass so many people every day, yet I’ve never felt more disconnected. It is, in a way, an unreachable madness of despair. This isolating yet buzzing feeling. My chest feels heavier. My ears ring, and I feel the blood pumping in my veins. I want it to consume me; I want the city to be a part of me.
It’s a Wednesday afternoon in October when I begin my walk with no destination. I make my way down to Oxford Street. I walk past strangers and catch fragments of their conversations. Sometimes I let my mind wander and make up lives for them. Other times I envision another extension of myself. There is a kind of thrill in walking alone in a city filled with so many people.
The city
There is a blend of overstimulation and clarity that I feel on my walk. The noise is background to my racing thoughts. I think of all the things I want to do, the ambition that flows through my veins, how I want to do it all. There is a hum inside of me, a whisper of “what if I wanted more.” Those 100 versions of me are all versions I wish to have. I want to be them all.
But that wanting, it’s not quiet. It echoes. My mind starts to spiral. Ambition in a man is called leadership. It’s praised. But in a woman, it’s audacious. It’s seen as excessive, as hunger where there should be gratitude. I try to push past the thought, but it lingers.
The city doesn’t say this out loud, but it suggests it in glances, in billboards, in the hierarchy of who takes up space. Every woman I pass becomes a mirror, every reflection a moment of judgment, am I doing too much, or not enough? London moves fast, and sometimes it feels like I have to earn my place in its rhythm. That if I pause too long, someone will notice and ask why I’m here.
I look to my left. I’m in Trafalgar Square now. I don’t remember crossing any streets. My body kept moving while my mind unraveled. I can hear my boots clicking on the pavement. The world is loud again, but I’m not sure when the volume came back up.
The noise
A man who climbs a ladder is praised for his vision, his determination to seize what he believes he deserves. But when I reach for more, the world tilts its head and asks, why do you need so much? The same hands that applaud his ascent move to block my path, palms outstretched as if to warn me that ambition is a dangerous thing for someone like me.
I hear a bell chime. Looking up, I realize I’ve reached Big Ben. The day is starting to settle, the air colder, the sky dimmer. He stands there, loud, unmoving, always certain. In my head, Big Ben is a man. Of course he is. I call him he without thinking. His chime interrupts me. Demands to be heard. There’s something comforting in his arrogance.
The wanting
I exhale. I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve been able to breathe so freely. The city inspires me as much as it terrifies me. I want it all, to be everything and more. To be consumed into a beautiful kind of madness that takes my soul and shapes it into something worth watching.
I think of all the plans I have: of the tabs still open on my laptop, the projects I start and abandon, the decisions I keep postponing, hoping clarity will arrive quietly in the night. Part of me dreams of sleep, a long, uninterrupted pause. Of vanishing into silence and letting the world forget me for a while. But I know myself. I’d still want everything, even from the safety of a bed I never left.
But despite it all, I live for the rush. The city jolts something awake in me, an ache, a fire. I crave the adrenaline it feeds me, the way it dares me to want more. The descent into madness doesn’t frighten me; it calls to me, gently, like a promise. If I can’t have peace, then let me have brilliance. Let me feel everything so fully I forget how to be still.
I think about greatness, how I want it or nothing at all. There’s no middle ground that satisfies me. I’ve been walking with my soul cracked open, letting the city peer in. I feel bare. Exposed. But there’s a high in that, too. In the vulnerability. In the spectacle of it all.
Maybe that’s the point. To let the city see you, want you, unravel you. And still keep walking.
The versions
There are so many versions of me that exist in London.
The metropolis is a paradox, offering everything, then demanding more in return. It invites ambition but punishes excess. It promises freedom but enforces silence. As a woman, the city asks me to be watchful, graceful, unobtrusive yet also hungry, brilliant, ever-climbing. I am expected to want everything, but only quietly.
And still, I want it all. The noise, the rush, the ache in my calves after a long walk. Some people seek nature to quiet their thoughts, but I run toward the city. Toward the concrete and chaos. I like that I’m just one face in hundreds passing by. Alone, yet never more understood.
The reflections
Lately, though, there’s been a fog, one that has nothing to do with weather. It hangs in the back of my mind, soft and quiet, clouding what comes next. I know that once I leave London, I’ll be returning to a life I’m no longer sure fits me. That uncertainty clings to me like mist. But for now, the city holds me. And I let it.
On that Wednesday walk, the one where I had nowhere to be, I still dressed like I did. A black dress, sheer tights, boots that clicked on the pavement. My grey coat wrapped around me, scarf tucked just right. Hair done, makeup too. My Ralph Lauren bag sat neatly on my shoulder. I like to think I go unnoticed on walks like these. People are busy, in motion, do they really have time to see me? But the city has eyes. Not just the people, but the glass. The windows that reflect me back at myself. The quiet glances I catch and pretend not to notice. Maybe I dress up for me, or maybe it’s a performance. Maybe I just want to be seen. Because to be seen is to be understood. And sometimes, ambitions be damned, that’s all we really want.
The moment
Sometimes I wonder if people see the version of me I’m trying to project, or if they just see a girl in a nice coat, another face in the crowd. What do they notice first? My bag? My face? Do they guess the right things about me, or all the wrong ones? I think about the stories I make up for strangers as I pass them on the street, and I wonder what stories they’d write about me. That I’m on my way to meet someone. That I’m rich, lost, or in love.
There’s a kind of femininity in that, this performance of polish and poise, of knowing how to take up space without being accused of doing too much. But it’s not just performance. It’s control. And control is addictive. If I can shape how the world sees me, maybe I can shape what I become. I don’t always say it out loud, but there’s a quiet hunger in me. A craving to reach for more, even when I pretend I’m content
The rest
I check my phone. 5:30 p.m.
I find a bench near the pier by Westminster, settle into it for a moment. The water moves slow, catching the last bits of daylight. I rest my feet. Watch people pass. Let the weight of the walk settle into my bones. I’m not in a rush to get back to my flat. I’ll make dinner later. For now, I just sit.
I think of the girl I was at the start of this walk, the one trying on lives like coats in a shop window. I never did pick one. But maybe that’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to choose. I just have to keep walking.
Virginia Woolf once said that to walk alone in London is the greatest rest. And maybe she was right. Because for a little while, I belonged to the city. And it belonged to me.
Even if only for a moment. Even if I never feel this way again.
There’s something about walking without a destination that brings forward the part of yourself you forget to pay attention to. If any part of my walk felt familiar to you, take your own. Step outside, look up, notice the noise, and the stillness between it.
And while a walk won’t change everything, it might change the way you carry it.
Sometimes, that’s enough.
