I Moved To London In My 20s: Here’s What No One Tells You
Cliché or life-changing?
By Kiri Johnston | 8th April 2025In 2016, I got my first real taste of London life. I’d packed a suitcase and taken off to Europe with one of my best friends, ready for a long, sun-soaked summer. We landed at Heathrow and crashed at my brother’s share house, which became our base while we travelled across the continent.
That trip was a blur. London, Amsterdam, Paris, Nice, Ibiza, Barcelona, Mallorca, Lisbon, Porto, Amalfi Coast, Cinque Terre, Mykonos, Santorini — all in five weeks. I turned 21 somewhere along the way. We lay on hot, stony beaches during the day and danced until sunrise at night. It was chaotic, spontaneous, and exactly what it needed to be.
I came home to Brisbane broke and completely wrecked. But something had shifted. I felt different — more awake.
Three years later, I’d sold almost everything I owned, saved what I could, and convinced my boyfriend we should move to London. People didn’t get it. “You’re such a beach girl,” they said. “You’ll hate it.” I didn’t care. I needed a challenge.
Leaving family, friends, and our dogs wasn’t easy, but I’d lived in the same city my whole life. I wanted to shake things up. We applied for Youth Mobility visas, packed two bags, and booked the one-way flight.
After a few months of travel, we touched down in London. No place to live, no jobs lined up, no friends waiting at the airport. But we weren’t panicked. The unknown felt like part of the deal.
We moved into a flat share in Clapham — the unofficial Aussie zone — and slotted into the rhythm of the city. Days were fast. Nights were faster. Rent was expensive, so we worked during the week and spent the rest on gigs, pubs, festivals, and cheap flights. Everyone I knew back home was settling down. We were doing the opposite.
That first year felt like a loop of late nights, packed Tube rides, and weekend trips booked on a whim. It was fun and a bit reckless. But I was aware, even in those small moments — on the top deck of a bus or crossing the Thames on foot — that I was living something special.
Most days followed the same pattern. Coffee and a croissant from Pret, squeezed into the Central Line, walking over Tower Bridge on the way to work. After hours, a drink would turn into dinner, then maybe another pub. Sometimes I’d fit in a gym class in Shoreditch or just wander home in the cold. London life was overstimulating in the best way.
Money was tight, but we made it work. I sold clothes on Depop, took the night Tube instead of Ubers, and lived on M&S lunches. Somehow there was still room for Sunday roasts and spontaneous trips to Europe. There were weeks I had almost nothing left in my account, but the trade-off always felt worth it.
Then the world stopped.
When COVID hit, the city fell still. Sirens replaced traffic, and the silence felt louder than anything I’d experienced. We clapped for NHS workers on our balcony, took long walks, and sat in parks with takeaway coffee. It was eerie. But it also gave me a deeper connection to the city — seeing it stripped back like that.
In the years that followed, I moved into the kind of work I never thought I’d land back home. Harrods. Adidas. NARS. A handful of startups and creative teams that shaped the way I think about branding, marketing, and design. I grew a lot. Learned even more. There was this unspoken understanding in London that you work hard, but don’t let it become everything. People actually value their time — weekends, bank holidays, those moments in between. It gave me a different perspective.
Yes, it was cold. Freezing, sometimes. But you get used to it. Layer up, keep moving. I used to spend my weekends at the beach. In London, I learnt to enjoy grey skies and walks through slushy streets. It was part of the experience.
There were downsides, of course. It’s expensive, the air’s heavy, the Tube is relentless. I had my phone stolen in broad daylight — a guy on a bike snatched it from my hand and rode off. There were rats, strikes, cancelled trains, long winters. But the harder bits gave the city its edge. You either resisted it or leaned in.
After a couple of years in Clapham, we moved east to a small apartment in Bethnal Green — eighth floor, overlooking a park with a view of the skyline. Then eventually to Dalston, my favourite pocket of the city. A little messier, more creative, less polished. Everyone there had their own style and didn’t care what anyone else thought. I liked that.
We built a life. Made friends from everywhere. Spent weekends wandering markets, discovering new neighbourhoods, and squeezing into basement bars. It wasn’t always glamorous, but it felt alive.
London changed me. It gave me confidence. It made me braver, more adaptable, and more sure of what I wanted. I learnt how to back myself. How to walk into rooms where I didn’t know anyone and be okay with it. How to take risks without needing a plan.
After five years, we decided to come home. There wasn’t a dramatic moment — just a quiet feeling that it was time. We wanted to be closer to family again. Life was shifting. We’d lived the chapter, and it was time for the next one.
But London? It stays with you. It’s imperfect, intense, and sometimes unforgiving. But that’s what makes it what it is. You get caught up in the energy. And when you leave, you realise how much it taught you.
If I had the choice again, I’d still go. No hesitation. Not because it was easy — but because it made me better.
It wasn’t always comfortable. But it was never boring.
And for that, I’m grateful.
