In 2015, our son was just four months old, and I was standing at a pivot point in my career.

I was still working in a job while growing my coaching business on the side. I could feel it—I was right on the edge of my business becoming truly viable, of it being the thing that could fully support us. But I was stretched thin, living in London with my wife, both of us working long hours and quickly realising that the life we had built just wouldn’t be possible anymore as a family.

So we made a huge decision.

We packed up our life in the UK and moved to Germany, to the farm that has been in my wife’s family for generations.

It was everything we thought we wanted: a slower life, more space, time to be truly present with our son. I was determined to fully commit to my business, and we had big ideas for regenerating the farm, bringing animals back, and breathing life into the land. We renovated the old farmhouse, built my coaching practice into the thriving, in-demand business it is today, and watched our little boy roam, play, and grow up surrounded by nature, cared for not just by us but by a whole village that, in many ways, helped raise him.

From the outside, it looked picture-perfect. And in many ways, it was. And still is.

But beneath it all, I was struggling.

I told myself it was fine. That I should be grateful. That we’d made this choice, and I needed to make it work. But I couldn’t ignore that I felt isolated, lonely, and out of place.

I found the German language hard, the culture tough, and making friends near impossible. I missed easy conversations, spontaneous meet-ups, the feeling of truly belonging. My business was thriving—something I’d worked incredibly hard for—but while my work was fulfilling, my personal life felt small, disconnected and horribly lonely.

Then came 2020.

Lockdown forced me to sit with the truth I’d been avoiding. There were no distractions, no ways to push through. And one day, on a call with a close friend, she said something that hit me straight in the gut:

“Liz, you’ve lost your spark since you moved out there.”

And she was right.

For years, I had ignored the part of me that needed something different, because admitting it felt like failure. Like I was undoing all the sacrifices, all the dreams, all the effort we had put into creating this life. But the truth was: I needed more.

Not instead. But as well.

I wanted a foot back in the UK. I missed being surrounded by people who just ‘got’ me, the kind of friends who show up at your doorstep, the northern banter, the sense of community I hadn’t realised I was starving for.

But actually making it happen? That was messy, painful, and full of doubt.

My wife and I went back and forth, over and over again. We argued. We wrestled with the big questions—the financial risk, the impact on our son, what it would mean for our life in Germany. Were we undoing everything we’d built? Were we making things harder, more complicated? Was this just me trying to fix something that wasn’t truly broken?

I talked to my coach about it. Was this about place, or was it about me? Was I just the kind of person who always wanted something different, something more? Maybe I just needed to learn to be content where I was, instead of always looking elsewhere for that feeling of home, of belonging. Maybe this wasn’t about geography at all.

But deep down, I knew. I just couldn’t live full time in Germany anymore.

So, in 2024, we took the leap. We bought a teeny tiny place on the edge of the Peak District. And suddenly, everything shifted.

I found community again. I made friends again. I walk into cafes, see familiar faces, stop for a chat, and—crucially—order a proper sandwich instead of some dense, seed-laden German bread brick that could double as a doorstop. Life here has more colour, more texture, more vibrancy. The conversations are different—big talk, not small talk. I’m surrounded by creative pals who challenge me, who spark ideas, who don’t just ask how I am but dive straight into what I’m thinking, feeling, making, exploring.

I feel lighter, freer, more me. My life in Germany still exists, and in many ways, it’s beautiful. I love bumbling about in the garden, hands in the dirt, growing vegetables that sometimes end up on our table—because, let’s be honest, I can only successfully grow about three things, and even they have a 50/50 survival rate. The farm, once quiet, has come back to life, now home to a gang of ponies and horses. I love walking our dog through the forest, where the trees feel like old friends, where life moves at a slower, steadier pace. Life there is simple, and I love that.

But I had to admit that I also needed something else.

And here’s the thing about finally admitting what you really want.

It’s terrifying. It’s messy. It might mean undoing years of effort, questioning everything you thought you wanted, and stepping into uncertainty with no guarantees. It can feel like pulling at a loose thread, knowing it might unravel everything you carefully stitched together.

But it also means freedom.

The kind of freedom where you can finally breathe again, where the low-level tension you didn’t even realise you were carrying starts to ease. Where you stop forcing yourself to be okay with something that just doesn’t fit anymore. It’s the moment where, instead of trying to convince yourself that you should be happy, you allow yourself to actually be deeply content.

And maybe that’s the scariest part? Realising that the life you fought so hard to build might not be the one that truly makes you come alive.

But what if admitting that is the first step toward something better?

So, I wonder …

What’s the thing you secretly want but haven’t let yourself admit yet?
What are you telling yourself you have to make work, even if it’s not working for you?
What would change if you finally said it out loud?

Maybe today is the day you stop ignoring it.