My hard work finally paid off – then I had to move home

When I got a call from a family member one morning in April 2008, I didn’t know what to make of it. 

‘We’re really struggling with your mum’s drinking.’ She said matter of factly. ‘And it’s really not great for us with you down there.’ 

Translation: ‘This is your problem not ours. When are you coming home?’ 

I’d been in London for a decade at this point, having first moved down south for university. However, I decided to stay put in hopes of pursuing a career in the fashion industry. 

In 1999 I secured a job at a broadsheet working as a fashion assistant and finally started my dream job as a fashion writer for John Lewis in May 2007. 

Not long after, I got my first assignment for Vogue – a few days in Switzerland, reporting on a prestigious fashion award  – and it felt like my years of hard work were finally paying off. 

But now this call threatened to derail everything. 

While my childhood is full of nice memories – like sipping bellinis with my mum on holiday in Tuscany – I wasn’t particularly keen to rush home for a number of reasons and chief among them was Mum’s drinking. 

From the age of 13, we’d always loved watching Absolutely Fabulous, but I think Mum got a bit too inspired by the partying and drinking lifestyle. 

By the time I left for university, Mum was regularly ‘binge drinking’. I would get calls about her drink habit spiralling while I was studying and it would often end in floods of tears in the student canteen because I felt so helpless. 

Throughout this time, I was also battling with my mental health. I’d suffered from an eating disorder since 16 – thanks to pop-culture and the media promoting a seven-stone ideal for women – but things took a turn for the worse when I started smoking cannabis, aged 19, and my unhealthy relationship with food turned into psychosis. 

No wonder then that I felt so proud to have turned the tables and to have the job and opportunities I did. I couldn’t give that all up now. 

For a few weeks I went back and forth over what to do.  

‘A move back to Stafford will completely put an end to my career,’ I thought. I knew there weren’t many freelance opportunities for fashion writers, or even writers back home. It was practically career suicide. 

On the other hand, rent prices in London had started their hike and I was struggling to pay this even with my Blue Chip career. 

Eventually, one thought won out over all the others: ‘She’s my mum. You only get one.’ 

I handed in my notice, feeling resigned to a future caring for a parent rather than following my dreams, and with a heavy acceptance that my career was over. 

Back in Stafford, at first things felt bleaker than I ever could have imagined. I had nowhere to live, my friends had all moved on with their lives – many with families of their own – and even my London-based boyfriend broke things off. 

My mum’s drinking had improved but she worried my psychosis might make it worse, which put a strain on our relationship. She didn’t seem to want me to help her at all, which was a horrible shock given all I’d sacrificed. 

I learned that the call I’d received wasn’t with Mum’s consent. She was always happy for me working in London, she didn’t want or need me to come home. But now there was no turning back.  

Initially my Dad let me stay with him for a few weeks until he’d sorted some accommodation for me in Oldbury, Birmingham. 

Then, to my surprise, after just a few weeks, I walked straight into a job at the local radio station, scriptwriting jingles and adverts full-time. 

I also took my autonomous fashion blog for a tabloid home with me from London, and continued writing this on the side in Oldbury, which the editor allowed. 

While I did leave the radio station after  six months as it was just too far to commute to, I realised that not only was my career not over, but it could be whatever I wanted it to be now. 

Since Covid, there are so many other freelance opportunities for me and with support from the NHS and my psychiatrist, I have been able to supplement my income with benefits like Universal Credit. This has seen a marked improvement in my own mental health.  

I write about 1-2 days a week for the national press and care for my partner, who is in a wheelchair, full-time.

Returning to a small town was scarier than it was leaving home for London, but I’ve adapted and it’s been good to me ever since. 

Have you moved back to your home town? Have your say in the comments belowComment Now

Cheaper property has meant I’ve been able to get on the housing ladder – something that would have been impossible, had I stayed in the city – and I’ve even been able to adopt two cats. 

I enjoy the long country walks on my doorstep, have had far fewer psychotic episodes here than I had in the capital, and rekindled a childhood romance. 

Over time, Mum has also become my best friend again. I’m incredibly proud of her resilience and am pleased to say her addiction has improved. 

Despite living with a disability as a result of a stroke she had in  2014, she’s kept her remarkable smile and sparkling wit. And though she gets help from carers who stop by to see her three times daily, I now live just 20 minutes away from her so I can see every week. 

I buy her cigarettes and cook her Sunday dinner occasionally and I’ve realised these things are more important to me than any career. 

So when I saw my old fashion writing job advertised for £100K recently, I was able to shrug it off. 

Of course a part of me realised I could have bought a studio in Battersea with that back in the day, but I’m now just happy to be at home. 

I’ve heard it said that ‘no-one ever wishes they spent more time at their desk’ and I agree wholeheartedly.  

Life is about so much more than making a living, and I’m so glad I realised that sooner rather than later. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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