“They nicknamed her the bolter”
Call it ghosting, Irish-exiting, or just plain running away from your problems forever—it was the only way my subconscious knew how to operate. Every few years, I’d pack up and move, convinced a better life was waiting for me somewhere else. For a long time, it never occurred to me that maybe the problem wasn’t the place—it was me.
Before starting college in 2010, I was certain Los Angeles would fix everything. And don’t get me wrong, I love LA—but all of my problems managed to follow me there. I spent most of my time threatening to transfer and counting down the days until I could move back home, convinced that this time I had “grown,” and that the same old issues definitely wouldn’t follow me here.
But even while settling back into cozy Connecticut, I had one eye on the exit. A few years later, the itch returned—so I applied to grad school in Colorado. Not fully cross-country, but close enough to qualify as another reinvention. I told myself this move would be different. I was evolved now. Enlightened. And Colorado? That was where my new life would begin. Of course, I already knew I didn’t want to stay there. I told my classmates I planned to move back to LA after graduation. They were (rightfully) confused. Why choose a place you don’t want to be? Your guess was as good as mine.
Turns out, my lifelong commitment to not putting down roots was alive and well.
And because I hadn’t actually done any inner work, you can probably guess how it all turned out. As graduation approached, I was already planning my escape. It was the height of the pandemic, but I packed up my studio apartment, grabbed my cat, and got the hell out of dodge. Catch flights, not feelings.
It wasn’t just geography I bolted from—I did it in relationships too. The pattern usually looked like this: if I felt a friend had wronged me and things blew up, I’d cut them out of my life with little to no regard for how they felt. I’d spin the story in a way that absolved me of all blame, dramatizing my side for anyone who’d listen.
And sure, some of those friends were guilty (thanks to the universe for a few of those much-needed exits), but if I’m being honest, I was usually part of the problem too. Some of the people I walked away from were my best friends… and I cut them out like it meant nothing. Full Gone Girl energy, minus the fake-murder plot.
It came from deep insecurity: leave before you’re left. But it also came from an unwillingness to look at myself. Because if I admitted fault, I’d have to open a can of worms I wasn’t ready to deal with.
Over time, I became more guarded, more self-righteous—and the pattern only got stronger. It allowed me to avoid discomfort, dodge accountability, and keep moving forward without ever looking inward.
So where does that leave me now? Honestly, in an uncomfortable but necessary place. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t wanted to run again since starting this healing journey. Hell, I probably would have if I could afford it. But moving across the country multiple times without financial freedom isn’t exactly a sustainable coping mechanism. London is still on my list for one chapter of my life, but this time I want to make sure I’m doing it for the right reasons—and that I’m (mostly) healed before I go chasing greener pastures again.
To break the cycle of constantly picking up and leaving whenever things got tough, I had to start looking inward. As I began unpacking my patterns, one thing kept surfacing again and again: fear.
Fear of intimacy—having to explain how someone hurt me and giving them the chance to repair it.
Fear of complacency—what if what I’m chasing is just the next distraction disguised as a fresh start?
And fear of myself—what parts of me keep creating these situations, and why?
One time might be a coincidence. But when the same thing keeps happening over and over, you start to realize… maybe it is you. And that’s a terrifying realization.
But once you see it, you can start tracing it. You begin to understand how your defense mechanisms—though flawed—were keeping you safe. They helped protect your heart, even when your mind suspected something was off. For me, a lot of this behavior was tangled up with drinking. I haven’t had a dramatic friendship breakup or cross-country move since I got sober. Still, the patterns linger.
My need to be right.
My fear of being alone.
My craving for validation.
These were the triggers keeping me stuck in fight-or-flight.
Ironically, I now live in the same town I tried to escape from in 2010. I still avoid the bar where I embarrassed myself a decade ago. I still feel uneasy when I drive past my ex’s exit. I still steer clear of my old high school and all its attachments—the ghost of who I used to be still lingers in its hallways. But I’ve also started to forgive myself—for the choices I made, for the girl who didn’t know any better, and for the woman who’s still learning.
Now, when I feel the urge to flee, I pause. I turn to myself. And almost every time, I can trace that discomfort back to an old wound, an insecurity, or a protective pattern trying to keep me safe. The difference is: I don’t run anymore.
