Kathryn knew how to leave. Leaving wasn’t just something she did—it was woven into her identity. She had done it countless times before: leaving cities, countries, continents—and, of course, people—whenever the next chapter of her life called for a clean break from the one before. And she never hesitated.

She didn’t grieve the places or the people she left behind, even when she had loved them deeply. She had loved her hometown of Berlin—until the opportunity came to move to the U.S. She had loved the Northeast—until a better job lured her to the South. And with each move, she left behind far more than just a city. She left behind everything that makes up a life: friends, partners and ex-partners, colleagues, workplaces, favorite restaurants, gyms, apartments, book clubs. She had loved them all in their time. And yet, when the moment came, she packed her bags, pared her life down to essentials, and disappeared—vanishing cleanly from the worlds she had once inhabited.

But her career was just an excuse—a tidy narrative she could offer in small talk to justify the frequency of her departures from lives that, by her own telling, had been full. The truth was simpler, and more difficult: Kathryn didn’t know how to stay.

She loved beginnings. The promise they held. The clean slate. But that’s the thing about beginnings—they don’t last. Eventually, they settle into routine. The novelty fades. What once felt like a fresh start becomes just another page in the same old book. No more blank canvas, just a well-worn record of missteps, regrets, and disappointments. Over time, every city transformed into a museum of her own miscalculations—and the slights she’d endured. The neighborhood bar where she’d gotten embarrassingly drunk more than once. The upscale restaurant where a smug waiter had mocked her pronunciation of a German wine. The yoga studio where she fainted mid-class, overestimating her ability and underestimating the heat. Each place became a site of imperfection, of exposure. Kathryn wanted a life—and a love—that felt pristine. Flawless. And the moment reality began to tarnish that ideal, she began planning her next escape.

This pattern didn’t just apply to places—it extended to people, too. Kathryn had no trouble forming connections, whether platonic or romantic. In fact, she was magnetic in the early stages. Every new relationship felt like a shooting star—brilliant, dazzling, and full of promise.

But the glow never lasted. The first forgotten birthday. The second disagreement. The third argument. These minor imperfections, inevitable in any human connection, were enough to dull the shine. To Kathryn, they weren’t just bumps in the road—they were signs that the relationship was no longer worth keeping. In her mind, relationships were only worth pursuing if they were effortless. If they were perfect. Two people, perfectly aligned, would never argue, never disappoint, never chip away at each other’s light. If conflict arose, it meant the bond was flawed—and therefore, disposable.

She had lived by these instincts for as long as she could remember. But now, Kathryn was married, settled, with two children, and a dog. Leaving was no longer an option—the serial leaver had nowhere to go. In the early years of her marriage, she tiptoed around conflict, afraid that even the smallest disagreement might shatter the delicate illusion of newlywed bliss. Every raised voice felt like a threat to the fragile foundation they had built. 

But a decade of staying—in one place, with the same people—taught her something she had spent years avoiding: that perfection is fleeting, and that love, real love, doesn’t demand and cannot possibly provide flawlessness. To her own surprise, she didn’t feel trapped or cornered. Instead, she felt a quiet relief. There was comfort in knowing that leaving was no longer an option—no decision to weigh, no escape to plan. The path forward was fixed, and with that certainty came an unexpected sense of peace with the world but, most importantly, with herself. She no longer kept an exhausting, running tally of her mistakes; stopped measuring herself — anyone else —against some invisible threshold of perfection.

And so, after a lifetime’s worth of erasures and depatures, she stayed. And in doing so, she finally arrived.