I didn't mean what I said.

And I feel quite embarrassed about both the reasons for saying it. One of which I possibly shouldn't share but I'm going to anyway. Now, I want to tell the truth.

Last week, I wrote a piece about why I don’t regret leaving London for two years and then returning.

It didn’t do as well as my essays usually do and that’s because it was lacking soul.

And it was lacking soul because it was disingenuous.

I wasn’t feeling any of what I was sharing.

I’d written that piece about a month earlier - when I was feeling that way - and it had been sitting in my drafts, gathering dust.

My finger had hovered over ‘publish’ for a few weeks, off and on.

And then last week, I hit go.

But I didn’t decide to share it because now it felt like the right time or because those words suddenly held weight or meaning.

It was for two different reasons, and I’m embarrassed about both of them.