I've left many places. Some by choice. Some by necessity. Some because staying felt impossible.
Each departure carries its own weight. The last look at a familiar street. The final closing of a door. The way the light falls differently on the last morning. These moments accumulate. They become part of who you are.
When I write about leaving, I'm writing about what happens when you choose to go. What you take with you. What you leave behind. The space between where you were and where you're going.
The things we carry aren't always physical. A way of speaking. A gesture. A memory of how the evening light looked through a particular window. These travel with us. They shape how we see new places, understand new people, make sense of ourselves in unfamiliar spaces.
Leaving isn't a single act. It's a process. It happens in stages, in moments of recognition, in the slow understanding that you've become someone who belongs elsewhere. Or perhaps belongs nowhere. Or belongs in the space between.
I write about this because it's what I know. What many of us know. The experience of departure. The experience of arrival. The experience of existing in the space between. These aren't unique stories, but they're worth telling, worth understanding, worth holding with care.