To Be Someone Who Leaves

When I was 16, my mom and my aunt dropped me off at a boarding school in France. We didn’t have a dramatic goodbye; no tears, no grand proclamations. Just a hug, a wave, and then they were gone. I remember standing there, suitcase in hand, watching their car disappear down the road, and for the first time, I felt the weight of what I’d done. I had left. Not for a weekend, not for a summer. I had left them. And as the silence settled around me, I realized that leaving wasn’t just a moment—it was a fracture. One I had chosen, one I wasn’t sure I could ever repair.

“You had to leave because you’re you. And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is someone who leaves.” That line from Past Lives hits me every time. It feels like someone holding up a mirror to the parts of myself I’d rather not see. Leaving isn’t a habit for me—it’s a compulsion. A way of being. And yet, I’ve never been sure if it’s a sign of strength or weakness. Is it brave to walk away? Or is it cowardly? Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither.

Leaving feels like freedom, and yet it’s full of grief. It’s the thrill of stepping into the unknown, the possibility of becoming something new, coupled with the quiet, nagging ache of knowing you’re leaving a part of yourself behind. Every time I leave, I tell myself it’s for the best. That staying would mean stagnation, that I’m chasing growth, purpose, meaning. But sometimes, in the quiet moments—alone in a new city, or on a train, or lying awake at night—I wonder if I’m just running. Running from the weight of staying, from the vulnerability of being rooted in one place, one relationship, one life.

Philosophers talk about the idea of becoming, that we’re constantly in motion, constantly transforming. I wonder if that’s why some of us can’t stop leaving. Because to stay is to risk becoming static, to risk being stuck in a version of ourselves we’ve outgrown. Leaving becomes a way of preserving that sense of motion, of convincing ourselves we’re still alive, still evolving. But at what cost?

The cost is never clearer than in the faces of the people you leave behind. My mom, trying to smile as she let me go. Friends who sent me messages that said, I’m so happy for you but meant, How could you leave me? When you leave, you tell yourself that everyone will understand. And maybe they do. But understanding doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. For them, or for you.

The Beatles captured this tension perfectly in She’s Leaving Home. “Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly? How could she do this to me?” the parents cry, and there’s a selfishness in their grief, but also a truth. When you leave, you are taking something from the people who love you. You’re taking the version of you they know, the comfort of your presence, the shared understanding of who you’ve been together. And they don’t get to follow you. That’s what makes leaving selfish. Not because you’re wrong for choosing yourself, but because your choice creates absence for someone else.

But staying would mean something, too. Staying would mean sacrificing that motion, that sense of becoming. It would mean folding yourself into a life that might not be yours anymore. There’s selfishness in staying too, in holding on to the comfort of the familiar, in refusing to let yourself grow because it might hurt someone else. The truth is, whether you leave or stay, someone gets hurt. And sometimes, that someone is you.

I’ve left so many times now that I’ve lost count. Homes, friendships, relationships,

countries. Every time, it feels like I’m tearing something out of myself, even as I convince myself I’m doing the right thing. Because leaving isn’t clean. You don’t just pack a bag and start over. You carry the weight of every place you’ve been, every person you’ve loved, every moment you’ve left behind. And that weight doesn’t go away. It just shifts.

The thing is I don’t regret leaving. Not because it’s easy or because it always feels right, but because it’s how I’ve learned to understand myself. Every time I leave, I learn something about who I am, what I value, what I want. I learn that I can survive on my own, that I can build something new, that I can carry the grief of absence and still find joy in the present. And maybe that’s what growing up is—learning to hold the contradictions of leaving. The freedom and the guilt. The selfishness and the necessity.

There’s a line from Rainer Maria Rilke: “For here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.” I think about that a lot. Maybe leaving isn’t selfish or selfless. Maybe it’s just change. And change is the only constant we have. To leave is to choose change, to choose motion, to choose life in all its messy, imperfect beauty. And that, for better or worse, I’ve understood that this is who I am: someone who leaves.