Sometimes the Most Spiritual Thing You Can Do Is Leave the City, the Man, and the Mask
Riya Kumari | Jul 10, 2025, 15:36 IST
Let me tell you a little secret: Spiritual awakenings don’t always come with incense, Himalayan singing bowls, or a seven-day silent retreat in Rishikesh (though, sure, that does look great on Instagram). Sometimes, your soul gets real loud in the middle of a Monday traffic jam while you’re sipping overpriced iced oat milk disappointment and realizing you’ve been dating a man who thinks therapy is “a scam by Big Feelings.”
It’s not about the city. Or the man. Or the memories. It’s about remembering the version of you that quietly stopped existing… while everyone clapped. Leaving isn’t running away. It’s making space for your soul to catch up. You are not a failure for needing distance. You are not selfish for choosing yourself after years of choosing everyone else first. You are simply someone who got tired of performing a version of life that didn’t feel like home.
You didn’t wake up one day and decide to lose yourself. It was slow. A gentle unraveling. You adjusted, a little. You compromised, a little. You silenced your gut in favor of someone else's comfort, just a little. Until the pieces of you that once felt so loud, so certain, became background noise.
You called it love. You called it growing up. You called it being easy to love. But deep down, you knew. You were fading.
He made you laugh. He gave you memories. He made you feel like you almost belonged. And it was that almost that kept you stuck the longest. Because some men don’t need to break you to keep you small. They just need to praise the version of you that’s most convenient for them and subtly ignore the rest.
You tried harder. Explained yourself. Softened your voice. Made your needs sound like jokes so they’d land easier. And in doing so, piece by piece, you edited your soul to fit someone else's frame. Until one day, you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman looking back.
The City Knew You at Your Best. And That’s What Made It So Painful
It held your milestones. Your magic. Your becoming. And so you stayed. Because how do you leave the place that knew your laugh at 22, your rooftop sunsets, the corner café where you fell in love with coffee and poetry? But memory is a tricky thing. Nostalgia doesn’t mean belonging.
Sometimes, it’s just the ache of familiarity dressing itself up as love. You weren’t holding onto the city. You were holding onto the person you used to be before you started shrinking.
The Mask Wasn't Vanity. It Was Survival
You wore it so well, this version of you that smiled on cue, kept the peace, always said yes, stayed charming, manageable, impressive. You mastered it. And people loved you for it. But here’s the part no one saw: Every time they clapped, you felt a little emptier.
Because they weren’t loving you. They were loving the character you became to earn approval. And even when you were surrounded by people, the loneliest part wasn’t being unseen. It was being misseen.
And So You Leave
Travel Won’t Fix You. But It Might Help You Remember
The journey ahead won’t be aesthetic.
It’ll be raw. Humbling. Lonely.
You’ll question if it was the right choice. You’ll miss the comfort of what almost worked. You’ll cry in strange bathrooms. You’ll long for familiar arms.
But one morning, without fanfare, something inside you will whisper: “I’m still here.” You’ll laugh without performing. You’ll walk without rushing. You’ll write something just for you. You’ll eat alone and actually taste the food. And suddenly, you’ll realize: this isn’t just travel. This is resurrection.
First, Let’s Tell the Truth: You Didn’t Mean to Disappear
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( Image credit : Unsplash )
You didn’t wake up one day and decide to lose yourself. It was slow. A gentle unraveling. You adjusted, a little. You compromised, a little. You silenced your gut in favor of someone else's comfort, just a little. Until the pieces of you that once felt so loud, so certain, became background noise.
You called it love. You called it growing up. You called it being easy to love. But deep down, you knew. You were fading.
The Man Wasn’t a Monster. That’s What Made It Harder
Couple
( Image credit : Unsplash )
He made you laugh. He gave you memories. He made you feel like you almost belonged. And it was that almost that kept you stuck the longest. Because some men don’t need to break you to keep you small. They just need to praise the version of you that’s most convenient for them and subtly ignore the rest.
You tried harder. Explained yourself. Softened your voice. Made your needs sound like jokes so they’d land easier. And in doing so, piece by piece, you edited your soul to fit someone else's frame. Until one day, you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman looking back.
The City Knew You at Your Best. And That’s What Made It So Painful
Prize
( Image credit : Unsplash )
It held your milestones. Your magic. Your becoming. And so you stayed. Because how do you leave the place that knew your laugh at 22, your rooftop sunsets, the corner café where you fell in love with coffee and poetry? But memory is a tricky thing. Nostalgia doesn’t mean belonging.
Sometimes, it’s just the ache of familiarity dressing itself up as love. You weren’t holding onto the city. You were holding onto the person you used to be before you started shrinking.
The Mask Wasn't Vanity. It Was Survival
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( Image credit : Unsplash )
You wore it so well, this version of you that smiled on cue, kept the peace, always said yes, stayed charming, manageable, impressive. You mastered it. And people loved you for it. But here’s the part no one saw: Every time they clapped, you felt a little emptier.
Because they weren’t loving you. They were loving the character you became to earn approval. And even when you were surrounded by people, the loneliest part wasn’t being unseen. It was being misseen.
And So You Leave
Travel
( Image credit : Unsplash )
- Not because you’re brave.
- Not because you’re healed.
Travel Won’t Fix You. But It Might Help You Remember
It’ll be raw. Humbling. Lonely.
You’ll question if it was the right choice. You’ll miss the comfort of what almost worked. You’ll cry in strange bathrooms. You’ll long for familiar arms.
But one morning, without fanfare, something inside you will whisper: “I’m still here.” You’ll laugh without performing. You’ll walk without rushing. You’ll write something just for you. You’ll eat alone and actually taste the food. And suddenly, you’ll realize: this isn’t just travel. This is resurrection.