October 2, 2019
A suburban borough of London, Richmond feels like a town unto itself. Located on a bend of the River Thames, and crowded with old English pubs, its tranquility is reflected in street names such as Paradise Road and The Vineyard. However, its true claim to fame is its sprawling natural beauty. Richmond Park is a national nature reserve, spanning 2,500 acres of wild woodland, and home to 144 bird species, 546 types of butterflies and moths, and over 300 red and fallow deer.
Last winter, I ventured to Richmond Park at 5 AM, hoping to catch the rising sun and see the deer in their sluggish early-morning state. I wasn’t alone in my endeavor; a handful of other photographers crouched quietly in the shrubs, self-conscious and intent. Giant fiery orange trees surrounded us, our shoes were wet from morning dew, and the dead autumn leaves were covered in frost. We held our breaths in unison, watching the deer move slowly and graze. Now and then, the sound of a shutter broke the quiet, but no one spoke. Nearly an hour passed before the deer wandered deeper into the woods. Then, without so much as a word, we all dispersed and went our separate ways.
By then, my shoes were caked in mud, and I regretted not bringing a thermos of hot coffee. Still, I pressed on, determined to cover as much ground as possible before rewarding myself with a caffeine kick. Mesmerized by the vast landscape, I watched dog owners arrive with their big labs and feisty terriers. The birds began their morning chorus, and the sun grew stronger, lighting up the cloudless sky.
Nature has a way of inspiring two contrasting states of mind: an indulgence in the beauty of all that is ephemeral, and a deep, intense reflection of the self. Spending time in a forest, by a lake or in the mountains is a peaceful and humble experience, a contagious calm. To re-center, and reconnect.
To some extent, and maybe this is my puritanical half, but mentally ruminating feels a lot like seeking penance from the world. Have you ever noticed how, even if it’s just a casual stroll through your local patch of greenery, there is no judgment in your thought process? No critical voice nagging you, like it would late at night when you're trying to sleep. Instead, your mind is open to the possibility of things. Alone in the face of nature, we let our thoughts drift, meeting them with empathy and kindness. There comes first a desire to understand everything, then, a yearning for absolution from the questions left unanswered.
This week, I find myself back in Richmond, but this time, I’m heading straight for the coffee. The café is tucked inside a glasshouse, adorned with antique tables and beautiful bouquets of freshly cut flowers. The sound of the coffee grinder occasionally cuts through the constant buzz of conversation. I nestle into an empty spot, cradling my black coffee for warmth. Next to me, a barista picks up dishes, humming to herself. She is wearing yellow overalls and a choppy fringe; there’s something almost musical about the way she works. I notice her gold-framed glasses (a style of specs I’ve had my eyes on for a while now) and ask her where she got them. We slide into the stereotypically female ping-pong of compliments and I am offered another free cup of coffee.
Growing up, I didn’t have many close girlfriends. I sidestepped cliques like they were landmines in high school, and though my friendships with men were easy, full of blunt, no-filter conversation, with women, there was always this potential for something deeper, more complicated - something I could never quite tap into. I still don’t really know how to navigate all-female friendships, but, somehow, in my early twenties, I’ve found myself surrounded by a solid group of them. And I’m grateful for that.
Each friend has a different lifestyle, career, and worldview - what ties them together is this shared ambition to grow, to evolve. Yet, despite all that, I still wrestle with whether or not I actually like being a woman. Or if perhaps, I resent it. There is this constant tug-of-war inside me about what it means to be a woman, about whether I’m falling into the “right” category of womanhood. This confusion, this fear, it leaks into everything. It’s like I can’t figure out how to be enough of a woman - without being too much, or too little. And that sense of not really knowing where I fit is always lurking in the background.
My escape is up north. A kind rival to Richmond, Hampstead Heath may not be on the riverside but it embraces thirty ponds. The Ladies Pond, as the name suggests, is a swimming pond for women only. No phones, no cameras, no alcohol - just women being women, whatever that means. There’s something deeply empowering about it: watching women, totally at ease in their own skin, sunbathing topless or gliding through the water, unbothered by the pond's murky depth. Ducks and dragonflies included. The water is biting cold and if you drop your feet, you can feel the algae brushing against your toes. It’s invigorating to be in a body of water, to know there is a magical and hidden world beneath you, and accepting that while you kick and flail your arms about, you are totally exposed to its danger.
But vulnerability does not come naturally. To be vulnerable is like walking a tightrope, never quite sure if you’re going to fall off the edge - and nobody, I mean, nobody wants to walk along that periphery.
When I was a teenager, I made it a point to never let anyone see me cry. Crying meant exposure, and being exposed meant offering a space for misinterpretation. Or worse, belittlement and pity. At least, that's what I used to think. I went from being a raging, hormonal adolescence, bubbling my emotions into a jar and excessively drinking to find courage in opening said-jar, to breaking the jar altogether and tormenting strangers on public transit instead. I am now a less raging, hormonally ramped up half-adult.
In the last few months, I have cried in bathroom stalls, coffee shops, pubs, on trains, in buses, standing in airport security lines, walking home from the tube station, leaning against my own front door, and - this one's a special one - in front of the cheese aisle at my local Sainsbury’s. And you know what? It’s been weirdly liberating - borderline exhibitionist. But here’s the thing: letting yourself be vulnerable doesn’t have to be this big, dramatic reveal. It doesn’t have to be a performance. There are small, quiet acts of vulnerability - like striking up a conversation with a stranger, or following a friend as she plunges into freezing water without a second thought.
We, as a society, have somehow decided that exposure isn’t really about connecting with others - it’s about self-actualization. It's a way of declaring, “I exist, and now I want you to witness it. Only this feels less like sharing and more like an invitation to be taken advantage of. Like you’re on display, and you don’t even know who’s looking.
In Serbia, we have a word for when someone does something just because they can. Inat. It's not a spontaneous defiance, but more like staring someone in the face, gently caressing their neck to spot the jugular and bam - taking a stab at it! Just because you can. Not because you want to, or because you shouldn't but because you can. It's calculated. And maybe that’s what we’re all doing - playing this eye for an eye game, trying to figure out how far we can push before it all tips over.
According to researcher Brené Brown, we avoid vulnerability because, deep down, we’re afraid of experiencing joy. “In the midst of great things, we dress rehearse tragedy,” she claims. We engineer smallness into our lives in fear of being unable to physically withstand shame and hurt. We armor up, but that instinct goes directly against our basic, human need to belong.
In her talk, Call to Courage, Brown expands on this emotional headlock. To truly belong, she says, is to let yourself be seen. A opposed to assessing and acclimating your behavior in order to fit in, which is dangerous. It’s like wearing a mask so perfectly stitched to your face that you forget you’re even wearing it.
All around me, I feel this pressure to become something when I feel I'm already someone. I’m a woman who has no idea what it means to be a woman. I’m a woman who, like my friends, is ambitious to evolve in every direction. I am a woman, who unlike my friends, is adamant to evolve. To be who you are - really, truly who you are - feels dicey. To have the audacity to be self-possessed enough to share that self with others? Even more so.
'Romanticizing Where I Live' was a call to courage, my fight against the slow creep of despondency taking root inside me. I initially thought London was a city where you could easily lose yourself - and everything else along with it. But writing about it has led me to a new conclusion. London is as cutthroat as it was three months ago, but it's precisely that ruthless nature that forces you to learn more about who you are. It teaches you to build a tolerance for failure. I was so afraid of failing in London that I failed to see that I was already failing.
Admittedly, I don’t do well with rejection, and London - well, London is great at giving it.
My ex would tell you that when it comes to holding onto a fight, I’m like a pit bull, and my mom would agree that I don’t know how to let go. If I’m being honest, I don’t feel ashamed of either. I’ll go after catharsis by whatever means necessary. Living in a state of limbo, keeping yourself safe from risk - that’s the real crushing feeling. Maybe that makes me unreasonable. Maybe it makes me a bit of a nutcase. Maybe I’m taking the right risks at the wrong time, or maybe I have yet to learn right or wrong in the risks themselves. But I live by Brown’s words: “To vulnerable is not as scary or dangerous as getting to the end of our lives and having to ask ourselves: what if I would’ve shown up?”
So, I show up. Every single day. For my writing. For my day job. For my friends. For my family. For the ones I love. I was failing blindly before, but now, I’m excited to fail boldly. To everyone who’s read my work, encouraged me to keep going, and shared their own stories with me - thank you.
I conclude my series here on the hilltop of Richmond Park, with the cool wind in my face and the leaves rustling around me. I'm not sure if I found my love for London again, but maybe letting go of love is the only way to find it. Until then, I am grateful to roam its streets, indulge in its beauty, and live fully.

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