Being back in Vermont after spending six months in London has proven to be the worst comedown of my life. 

And that is really saying something. 

Now, I’m not saying I hate my home. I love being close to my family and friends, but this tale is as old as time. 

I’ve outgrown the place I grew in. 

At least for now. 

In London, I thrived on the creativity of others. There was so much happening all the time, and my friends and I spent every second writing, filming, painting and creating. 

I never knew life could be that colorful. 

I never knew I could exist so loudly. 

I’ve realized since coming home, that things are just silent, still.  

I have such an intense love and connection for those people and that place. The speed and severity with which we all grew together was something quite fierce. 

Spending every waking hour with the loves of my life was a dream, and now I can’t tell you the next time I’ll see any of them. 

Over the past few months, I have felt my life in London slipping through my fingers and not a single blog post I had read before the journey prepared me for this kind of mourning. 

I also think it has to do with mourning “The Dream.” 

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to travel. I didn’t really have any other goals or know what I wanted from life except to go to grand places and see grand things. 

Now, in no way have I run out of places to go to. 

But the idea of traveling the world was always a far-fetched, unachievable dream. 

I’ve now done the one thing I never thought I’d be able to do. 

So, what now? 

Sure, I have other dreams, and I keep reminding myself that this probably wasn’t the height of my life. 

Unfortunately, I’ve never been particularly persuasive.  

Something to know about studying abroad is it’s all about the experience. 

Something new and crazy was always happening. 

I said yes to just about everything. I was reckless, and I was free in the most fantastic city. 

Mind you, it was not a great formula for frugality. 

Flash forward two months later and I’m the most broke I’ve ever been and will probably continue to be for at least 10 years. 

About a month ago, I was laying on my mattress on the floor of my new apartment on Elm Street in Castleton, Vermont. 

I was reading Joan Didion, hoping to learn something. 

My mattress didn’t have a bed frame, and my box fan blew about stale air. 

No art had been hung on the walls yet. 

My dresser was from my grandma’s house, my rugs didn’t match, and the window was missing the screen. 

I was thinking: I’m 21; this feels pivotal. 

So, I realized that day, late in July, one doesn’t just stop having experiences. 

Maybe it wasn’t the fact that things happened in London that caused recklessness. 

Maybe it was because I made them happen. 

Although even I don’t quite believe that. 

 I won’t sit here and spout nonsense about how my friends made me brave and I’ll take the courage they gave me onto the next Great Adventure.  

Because yes, I was brave when I was around them, but I don’t know where I’m going next.  

Wherever it is, I don’t really feel courageous enough to face it without them.