Back in the Nest, Still a Mess: Why Moving Home Didn’t Fix My Mental Health

A few months after I moved back, things on the surface looked excellent.

I had a new job as a researcher on a show about Scottish wildlife. I was earning more, living at home, and, for the first time in ages, I didn’t have to worry about a huge sum of rent eating into my wages. Money went straight into a savings pot for my first flat, and there was comfort in being surrounded by my parents, familiar faces, and the old routines of home.

Scotland was outweighing Bristol just as my brain had promised it would.

But being back in the family home was hard. The inescapable feeling of having stepped backwards in life was real. The little things I’d moved to Bristol to escape felt magnified now. One minute I was a grown adult with a decent salary, the next I was 17 again, snapping at my parents over absolutely nothing. The same relentless thoughts of negativity, irritability, and imposter syndrome followed me from Bristol. They were still there—just wearing different disguises to suit my new environment.

I wasn’t good enough for the money I was now earning. Too inexperienced to deserve such a salary. Too above my station. I wasn’t saving enough for a flat. I should be cutting back even more. Saying no to plans with the friends I’d moved home to be closer to. How embarrassing to be back in my childhood bedroom while everyone else was travelling, buying homes, and getting married.

I’d moved home to be happier, but that happiness still hadn’t materialised.

I found myself complaining a lot. I’d vent to friends or fill text conversations with the things that annoyed me—what my parents said, something my boss did, or frustrations that came from my daily life. And when good things happened for me or others, I struggled to feel genuinely happy about it. It was like my mind couldn't help but find something wrong with their joy.

'They probably only think they’re happy,' I’d think when an engagement or a new job was announced as if I couldn’t believe anyone could be happy without doubt creeping in.

I took everything personally. Every new relationship or flat purchase was an attack on how I was falling behind. I overthought every conversation—what was said, how it was said. I replayed things in my head, trying to figure out if I was missing something or if I had said the wrong thing. I made everything feel bigger than it really was.

I knew I was holding onto bitterness, but it wasn’t just about the world around me. It was about the way I was perceiving everything, the way I couldn’t escape that negative loop in my mind.

A few months after I moved home, I went for dinner with a friend after work. We sat across from each other in a busy city-centre pizza restaurant, the air was thick with the buzz of post-work conversation and the clink of silverware. Servers flew past, their arms laden with bread baskets and heavy white plates.

I was wrapped up in ranting—about my job, money, living at home, everything - when I noticed she set her fork down on an empty plate. I’d barely eaten two slices of my own. She leaned back in her chair, nodding slowly as she took a sip of her wine.

'I don’t know,' I began, 'Everything’s changed, but like, I’m still not happy up here,' I confessed picking up my nearly-empty wine glass. 'You know, I moved home because I hated Bristol, I changed my job, I’m saving for a flat. But Bristol's gone so there's nothing left to blame and I still feel so stuck in my own mind.'

She leaned forward, putting her glass down, I could tell she was unsure how to proceed. 'Honestly, Els, I’ve never really felt that way,' she said, her voice thoughtful. 'Like, sure, I wonder sometimes if I’m capable of things, but I don’t let that stop me from trying. I’ve never really felt stuck. I mean, doubts come up, but they don’t stop me from moving forward. Does that make sense?'

I stared at her, completely struck by how right she was. I'd always envied her effortless confidence. She was always moving forward, travelling the world without worry, never panicking about something bad happening. Breakups and job losses didn’t faze her – she just found a new boyfriend or another job and kept going. It baffled me.

My mind reeled when I realised I couldn't remember the last time I felt capable of handling change or excited about embracing the opportunities life had to offer. Probably childhood. Nothing needed to be planned out then, but everything felt simple and clear. The future was big and bright, just waiting for me to step into it.

'So you never doubt yourself or like, wake up at three in the morning worrying about a conversation you had a year ago..?' I trailed.

'Nope.' she shrugged, draining the last of her wine and gesturing towards the waitress for another two glasses.

I stared at her, the words echoing in my head. I couldn’t help but compare her outlook to the endless cycle of negativity in my own mind.

And then it hit me. My thoughts weren’t normal.

They weren’t just a part of life that everyone experiences; they were a constant weight I carried, pulling me down every day. It wasn’t just occasional bouts of self-doubt that could be brushed off — I was stuck in something deeper. I didn’t know where or how, but something kept me anchored in a place of misery.

I realised I desperately wanted to be like her and everyone else around me - able to let things go, and not overthink every little thing. I just wanted to feel like myself again — the person I’d been in childhood or during my later years at university before the doubts and negativity had taken hold.

Because feeling stuck in an endless cycle of self-doubt and negativity all the time was actually getting really fucking exhausting.

Changing everything around me hadn’t worked, so maybe it was time to change something much bigger: me.

'Okay,' I said after a long pause, my mind finally clicking, 'maybe it’s time to call a therapist.'

She gave me a knowing nod as she raised her freshened wine glass.

'So, what's new with you?' I asked as I clinked mine to hers.