Never say never: Why Changing Your Mind is a Superpower

Light is ahead; it’s not an oncoming train.

A few years ago, I did a thing. Packed up my life, flounced off to the wild Dartmoor countryside, and declared, this is it! The dream! The homecoming! The place where I shall finally have my sh!t together!

And it made sense, right? I grew up near here. This felt like home.

The place I thought I was supposed to be. Where everything would click into place like the final, satisfying piece of a puzzle. Cue the triumphant soundtrack.

What they don’t put on the postcards is that it’s bloody isolating. Yes, the views are spectacular. But so is the realisation that I have more meaningful relationships with the sheep and the wild horses in the fields next door than actual humans.

Because I mainly see sheep and wild horses more often than humans from my home office.

Turns out, I am not built for a life where a trip to the supermarket requires military-grade logistics.

I wanted to be that person. The one who joyfully embraces the “simpler life.” Who swaps happy hour for a wholesome hike across the moors. Who posts pictures of artisanal bread and writes captions like, no place I’d rather be. But I was lying to myself. Because, if I’m honest, I like my artisanal bread with a side of John Lewis, the airport, and easy access to my friends without it turning into a Lord of the Rings-style trek.

(Shoot me for being so shallow. But at least I’ll go down clutching a well-curated selection of homeware.)

And while we’re at it, can we talk about the whole “I could totally live here” crowd? You know, the ones who visit St Ives or the South Hams once a year, sip a flat white, and suddenly fancy themselves rugged coastal dwellers. Cute.

But also? Maybe not.

You’d last approximately four months before the reality of spotty Wi-Fi, torrential sideways rain, and the sudden need for a 100-mile drive for milk post-10pm sent you spiralling.

For a long time, I resisted the truth. Told myself I had to stick it out. That changing my mind meant failure. That if I left, I’d be some kind of weak-willed dropout (which, as it turns out, is not a real thing).

I thought moving back home would mean finally feeling at home. But that’s not how it works. Because home isn’t a postcode. It’s a feeling. And the real test isn’t whether you can go back, it’s whether you can be honest with yourself about what you actually need.

And what I needed? Was to admit that my life belonged somewhere else.

So here I am. Moving back towards a life that feels like home, not just because of geography, but because of the work, the people, and the purpose that make me feel alive. (And yes, the occasional overpriced department store candle, leave me alone).

And if you are standing at the crossroads, trying to figure out whether to leap, here’s your sign. Do it. Pivot. Reinvent. And know that you can begin again no matter where you are on the path.