I left London for the suburbs — within a month I was begging to go back

In 2018, when I first moved to London, I was a bit of a walking cliché — a 24-year-old girl from a small town no one had ever heard of, with dreams of living in the big city and making something of herself.

I’d grown up in a small town in Norfolk, and always longed to be somewhere bigger and brighter, with a bit more going on. 

New York was where I truly wanted to go, but moving there is pretty complicated, so the Big Smoke would have to do.

Family and friends were sceptical. They didn’t think I was cut out for the harsh reality of life in London. ‘You’ll be back here in six months,’ a colleague declared at my leaving drinks. ‘You’re too nice to live somewhere like that.’

Flash forward to 2023 and I’d certainly proved him wrong. I LOVED living in London. I couldn’t get enough of the hustle and bustle, the endless array of things to do and see — and don’t even get me started on the food! It was everything I’d hoped it would be and more.

Sure, there were some downsides; the insane rent prices for one, the mice, and the unbearable heat in summertime. But for the most part, I was in my element.

Then my husband received a cancer diagnosis and everything changed. 

Your favourite person getting cancer really throws everything into perspective. None of what I thought mattered really did anymore.

Thankfully surgery went well and he didn’t have to undergo further treatment. We were really lucky, as it could have been a lot worse, but it took a lot out of him nonetheless.

Suddenly the city was an emotionally and physically exhausting place for him to be. He wanted a change of pace and although I was apprehensive about it, I wanted to give him whatever he needed. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss my own feelings…

We soon found ourselves in the Tunbridge Wells, looking around a two-bedroom cottage in the town’s suburbs. The kitchen alone was bigger than most of our flat, and it had a garden and parking, all for the same price we were paying in the city.

We could see lush green fields out of the spare bedroom window, and nearby Dunorlan Park seemed like the perfect place to walk the puppy we would inevitably have to get if we moved here. 

After living in an apartment with a pokey half galley kitchen and a bedroom that was only just big enough for a double bed, this place seemed too good to be true. And on paper the town itself was a great fit for us — The Pantiles were picture perfect, it had a Gail’s and an Anthropologie, as well as some fabulous independent stores (Pink Mary) and restaurants. It ticked loads of boxes.

So we signed on the dotted line and in January 2024 we packed everything into a van and waved goodbye to the home we’d made in Kennington. 

At first it was kind of fun. We started going to the local pub on a Friday night with friends who lived nearby, we took leisurely walks into town to enjoy brunch on the weekends, and we got to explore Kent and the surrounding counties — visiting places like Pooh Corner in Hartfield, and Rye and Camber Sands (East Sussex).

We actually spoke to our neighbours, who waved when they saw us and probably would have been more than happy to lend a cup of sugar. 

It all felt incredibly wholesome… for a few weeks. Just a month after moving in, I was begging our landlord to let us leave.

Turns out there is something I’m not cut out for — commuting. I never thought I’d miss being squished into another person’s armpit on the Northern Line, but suddenly I was feeling incredibly nostalgic for it.

Frequent train delays and cancellations meant I was getting up at 5am each day to make it to work on time, and sometimes not getting home until 11pm. I’d get in, eat something, and then go straight to bed, only to do it all again the next day. It didn’t feel like I was really living, I was just existing.  

People told me that commuting was the sacrifice you made during the week in order to enjoy spending weekends in the place you love. But the problem was, I didn’t actually love Tunbridge Wells and I wasn’t convinced it would grow on me either. Every time I heard someone say the words ‘commuter town’ I instantly got the ick.  

I’d liked the idea of what life would be like there, but that’s not the same thing as actually wanting to live there. I was still the girl who dreamed of living in New York, I was never going to be happy settling for suburbia. 

And I wasn’t the only one struggling — my husband, the driving force behind our move, also had regrets. 

He’s someone who is content being outside in nature, or sitting on the sofa with a good book, so this new lifestyle should have suited him perfectly. Unlike me, he doesn’t get FOMO, and as he grew up near London he wasn’t as dazzled by the city as I was. However, he too found himself missing our life there and becoming bored in Tunbridge Wells.

He’d underestimated just how much he got out of being in London. From booking last-minute theatre tickets after work, to killing time by nipping in the National Gallery — being impulsive is tricky when you have to get the last train home. 

And there just wasn’t enough to do in town to keep us entertained. In London you’re constantly spoiled for choice, there’s always something new going on, or a part of the city to discover, but you can see all that Tunbridge Wells has to offer in one day. All of the shops closing by 5pm is also a major buzzkill when you don’t get home until 7pm at the earliest. 

The house itself also wasn’t right. We missed the cosiness of our tiny flat and quickly realised all those things we’d convinced ourselves we needed — more space, a garden, an upstairs — we were actually perfectly fine without. 

The saving grace of the situation was that we hadn’t bought the house, and decided to rent instead. Even better, we’d asked for a six-month break clause to be included in our contract just in case we regretted our choice.

The next few months certainly felt like they dragged on, and I was miserable for most of that time. Home had always been my sanctuary, but this wasn’t somewhere I wanted to spend my time. I found myself working later and later each evening, not wanting to go back to Tunbridge Wells and I outright refused to turn 30 there (I booked a stay at Art’otel Battersea for the night, it was marvellous).