Reverse Everwood

Here’s how it goes in drama soaps. In any decent show of that kind, ranging from the all-time classic Everwood to the Netflix hit Virgin River, you leave your busy city life after the loss of your partner and move to a random remote place in the countryside, quirky-but-loveable villagers included, to deal with grief and other emotional baggage and obviously to meet a new love interest along the way, all this on the backdrop of epic mountains and waterfalls. People love that shit. And admittedly, at this point, I love it too. It’s cozy, it’s relatable, the world feels somewhat intact.

As I was sitting in my packed rental Audi two weeks ago, going 160 km/h on the highway, the irony didn’t escape me that I’m kind of doing it backwards. I had forsworn scenic drives behind the occasional tractor (clear hint that the population is in the four figures) for subway-rides in Germany’s second-to-largest city (population definitely in the seven figures). Instead of abandoning my career as a surgeon for a quaint family medical practice - another common theme in those shows -, I decided to go from working in a small team in a small town to an opera house with several hundred employees right in the city center.

Even back in the days when I still sneered at those shows’ obvious plots and their kitschy dialogue, I was nonetheless intrigued by this concept of a completely new life somewhere (aesthetically pleasing backdrop included obviously). Where would I go? Who could I be? I guess we all ask ourselves these questions sometimes, but mostly theoretically. If things are going well, there are way too many people, routines and places to lose to actually consider trying that out. In my case, it took a divorce, serious medical issues and trauma work to get to a point where starting over became a real possibility for the first time.

There’s this song by Crowded House (earworm warning right there) which goes ‘Everywhere you go you always take the weather with you’. Having grown up with a fascination for Stoic philosophy (I have a tattoo to prove it), I always took this to mean what good old Seneca used to tell us 2,000 years ago - you can run, but you can’t outrun yourself. Your troubles will be in your luggage. And many of the mentioned shows detail exactly this - the protagonists struggle to leave old habits, people, longings behind, even when the new environment is promising and has all these crazy wholesome festivities to attend (quite amusing how many, actually, considering these towns are supposedly so small).

It’s not easy to start over. In many cases, the need for that arises amidst serious life-altering events, which are either a result of or result in emotional overload that takes time and effort to untangle. The moment you want to flee from a situation the most is also usually the moment where running off won’t really help in the long run. In addition, even when new beginnings come at a time when things are relatively calm, they will confront you with a lot of old baggage when you’re saying your good byes (or lack thereof) as well as when you’re trying to get acquainted with new people. And while this makes for good television, it will feel very overwhelming in real life.

Packing this massive car and navigating the longest drive I’ve ever done, especially by myself, surely was exciting. As I approached Hamburg with my haphazardly stacked boxes, a disassembled desk and about fifteen different driver assist systems beeping along to my deep house playlist, I was beaming. This had been six months in the making and it was working out exactly as I had wanted it to. I stayed in an AirBnb in the woods for a few days, went to work for the first time and moved into my apartment a few days later, returning the car in the heart of the city without killing anyone in the process. I felt on top of the world.

When pondering new beginnings, we are drawn to the multitude of options. We see potential, but undefined, and that intrigues us. We imagine life somewhere else as this never-ending adventure. And for a while, it is. Every time I talk a walk around my neighborhood (and I take many), I discover something new. A shop, a quirky backstreet, a new park. I have yet to try out all the restaurants I’ve been told about, all the sports clubs people go to, all the events I see online. Even though I moved into my apartment, I still live out of boxes to an extent because I will have to move out again for a few weeks before returning (long story).

One of the misconceptions about starting over is that life will somehow be grander at all times. Remember the sheep farm that you were going to start in New Zealand when you were frustrated with your finals in uni? Yeah. It felt good to fantasize about that even though it would, realistically, have turned into a nightmare (I don’t even like sheep farms). Contrary to temporary adventures as a relief to the current life (before returning to it), building a whole new life means building structure - socially, financially, geographically.

The shift is gradual at first. You realize that even if you didn’t plan to yet, you’re starting to build routines, which is natural. You will pick a route to work, and you will see the same subway stops every day now. You will gravitate towards a certain grocery store and you will realize what they have and don’t have. Even if you haven’t seen half of what your new surroundings have to offer, you will become familiar with a certain microcosm you have picked out for yourself, however consciously. The options are no longer limitless. Instead of adventure, it will start to be just life. You will find that some routines indeed changed from your former existence. I now read on the subway, which I couldn’t at home because I had to drive to work. I eat out more because now I have the option to do that.

But some things will also stay exactly the same, and even if the urge to live differently was intense and it made sense to leave most things, people, places behind, it’s a good thing that you can’t get rid of everything all at once.

I’m now two weeks into the new life, and my body is starting to catch up with reality. Meaning, my system starts to understand that this situation is not just a trip, after which I’ll return to my little house in the countryside and continue in familiar waters. No, this is it now. The unfamiliar sounds I hear from my neighbors in my apartment complex? Yeah, I better get used to them. All those new people I met at work? I’ll see them every week now. After two weeks, I start to get a sense of what every day life could look like here - and as solid and promising as it is, it’s also scary. Obviously. I’ve given up everything that was familiar and I haven’t yet made it to the stage where the new can take its place.

So I’m cherishing what remains of my old life, even if part of me sometimes wants to put everything up for debate - when starting over, why not all the way? But no. Seneca, who is actually quoting Sokrates on this, says: ‘What else can you expect, seeing that you always take yourself with you when you go abroad?’ I say, you better. Starting a new life because the old one is naturally over or doesn’t suit you anymore is a valid move. But attempting to scrape your entire existence and become a new person without habit or history is unrealistic. You will still like the same things and you will hopefully have at least a friend or two to help you on your passage, because there will come a time when you miss your old bed, simply because it’s where you used to wake up and now you don’t.

In shows like Everwood, the scenic beauty of the landscape will create this feeling of home. Together with the idealized depiction of village life in a remote corner of the country, it seems wholesome. The reality, whether you go Everwood or Reverse Everwood, is obviously more complex. You have to create your own structures in an unfamiliar place where most other people already have their structures. A beautiful neighborhood can help, and I certainly found that. Hamburg was a deliberate choice, I visited several times before I moved here and I had tried out for my job for over a week before applying. Out of all the options I had after my illness, this one made the most sense by far. And I’m beyond excited that I’m here now. But it will also be a lot of work.

I’m glad that I had those six months where I already knew where I wanted to go but couldn’t turn it into a reality just yet. It gave me time to prepare, to consciously say good bye and to grieve for the period of my life that was now coming to an end. It also gave me the time to build trust in my recovery because a drastic life change like this is a lot to deal with for any nervous system. And finally, it gave me time to reconsider, especially when the apartment hunt was going nowhere at first and it was unclear if I was going to get the job or not. I stayed with my initial decision and here I am now. Not in Everwood but in my own potential version of it. What I’ve already seen is exciting. Now I’ll start building.