The Part of Me That Stayed Home for 28 Years
I thought I’d feel nothing but joy in London. I was wrong.
The Return
Today, I walked through the Tower of London.
In the Beauchamp Tower, prisoners’ reflections are carved into stone — 400 years old. I climbed the steps to the White Tower, built with wood so they could be burned if attackers came, and passed the Line of Kings — knights in armor astride wooden horses, a display begun in 1660 to project the monarchy’s power.
In the Jewel House, the Koh-i-Noor diamond on the queen’s crown dazzled in the light. I drifted past until daylight pulled me toward the ramparts.
From the outer wall, the London skyline was a collision of centuries — steel cranes rising behind weathered stone, the Thames shimmering in the noonday sun. And there, surrounded by history and beauty, a sting rose in my eyes and an ache settled in my chest.
Have you ever stood somewhere you thought would fill you with joy — and felt something else entirely?
Memory and Mood
I first discovered travel in college — backpacking through Europe, then spending a semester in Kenya. I loved other cultures, how people lived, and the idea of building bridges between them. I went on to graduate school in international affairs to make it my life’s work.
Then life shifted. There were bills to pay, people who needed me, choices that seemed practical in the moment. Travel slid quietly into the background — first because there wasn’t time, then because I’d stopped imagining it. Even when opportunities came for others, I stayed home.
That period feels like looking through thick glass — blurry and unfocused. The woman who once traveled with joy disappeared behind responsibilities, financial pressures, and a quiet loss of hope. Before Joy by Design, I had simply stopped believing things would work out.
The last time I was in London was 1997, the year Princess Diana died. Twenty-eight years have passed since then. I don’t quite know how I lost the part of me that once felt so central.
The Collision Inside
On Tower Bridge, anger and grief arrived together — at the imbalance, at the years gone, at the quiet way I had stopped moving toward what I loved. They tightened my throat and pressed heavily against my chest. There was no single moment I disappeared; it was a slow erosion, a thousand small choices that seemed reasonable at the time.
I told myself, You’re in London, you should be happy. I was embarrassed, too — to be here, in this extraordinary city, and feel anything less than delighted. It’s uncomfortable to admit this out loud. Part of me wanted to bury it so no one would think I was ungrateful. But it was the truth. And the truth has a way of asking to be felt.
We wandered past Big Ben and Westminster. Beauty rose up on every side, but the heaviness stayed. Tears slid behind my sunglasses. Guilt and gratitude wrestled for attention — the gap between how I thought I “ought” feel and the truth of how I did.
Loosening
Later, along the canal, we stopped for a Pimm’s cup. Fruit and cucumber floated in the ice, our glasses catching the evening light as tour boats glided under the bridge.
It was not joy I felt, but something gentler — a loosening, the kind that happens when you remember a part of yourself you do not want to lose again.
The next morning, I opened my journal and wrote myself back into gratitude. But only after grief had its turn.
Before Joy by Design, I probably would have turned this into a tale of woe, telling a story about what was wrong. Or worse, dismissed the grief as unwelcome. But there was no story here — just feelings, moving through. A bridge in summer light, the ache in my chest, and the quiet permission to feel all of it, like the slow tide moving under the bridge.
Mini Gauge — In the Moment
Primary Emotion: Grief
Body: Heaviness and tightness in my chest, slow movement, brittle feeling.
Mind: Judgment (“I should feel happy”), longing.
Try it: Think of a moment when your emotions didn’t match the occasion. Where did it show up in your body? What did you do — or wish you’d done — next?