After I have finished my four-year undergraduate university course, I will be moving back to my hometown, back to rainy old London, back to my red buses, my “proper” English chips with real Heinz ketchup, and my 5 o’clock gossip over a cuppa with Mum. This time next year, I will pack up my life in ten boxes (7 for shoes, 2 for clothes, 1 for fine-liner pens, my files and my label-maker), and fly home, to the city whose qualities are unparalleled by any other capital, qualities which are ingrained in who I am. (For those of you who know me, these are the same ones that make me hate small talk, introductions that don’t involve clearly prompted hugs or handshakes, and bumping into people I know on the street.) I will get off that plane with a sigh of relief, greeted at the gate by my wonderful family. Mum will complain the whole car-journey home that I should have taken the train because the traffic is “bloody nuts at this time of day” and Dad will yell at the GPS for taking us the wrong way, even though he knows London like the back of his hand. Despite this, they pick me up every time.

These moments that occur between the airport and our house in West London are just two of the millions that I miss. Every family has their quirks and everyday typicalities that make up family life. For me, this is anything from my dad's repetitive wordplay which I laugh at by habit, to coming downstairs at 6a.m. to find Mum lying on the sofa getting her peace and quiet before the inevitable chaos begins. These are the things which I took for granted before leaving for university, and the things that I subconsciously ache for when I am away. I can count on them, their familiarity and the comfort that they bring.

After revealing my plans to my American friends throughout this school year, I was greeted with a rather underwhelming response: "that's a bit safe", and "back home? I wouldn't expect that of you." To them, this may appear out of character as, since moving 5000 miles from home, I have become more adventurous, more spontaneous, and more independent. After my initial move to California, I have learned that are some things which surprise us, and be it for the good or the bad, these have the ability to alter our personalities irreversibly. The former qualities I described, I was lucky to acquire. However, I also had experiences which made me pessimistic, overly-realistic, and static, unable to commit my heart to people and things which others may have treasured.

The life I live at university in America has seemed temporary - a useful, rewarding, inspiring, but somewhat detached pocket of my self.

Therefore, while many feel that these years represent their golden era, I cannot help but be excited to return to a place where I feel rooted in myself, my surroundings, and the people who ground me there - my family, and the friends who may as well be.

I have had to ask myself whether returning home, back to the “nest”, is weak. Does this action reflect badly on my strength, my drive, my determination and ambition to become the successful adult I want to be? Would living in my family home for a year while I get on my feet detract from any future achievements, belittling them in light of the financial boost this would provide? Does wanting to be near to my parents and brothers show that I am not emotionally stable enough to be on my own?

I am proud and stubborn by nature - I know, I’m coming off great in this - and it must be said that asking for help is not my strong suit. Therefore to me, this plan of mine does not feel like a step backwards, but instead a step forwards in realizing that sometimes, I cannot do everything alone. Asking for help is a real skill and attribute, as you learn to deal with criticism and how to take the advice of others, and come to understand that there is no shame in doing so.

It may be your plan to fly as far away from home as possible. If this is the case, go and have an amazing adventure. For me, going back to a family I will have spent the best part of four years away from, is a little break from my adventure, an interval if you will, to prepare myself for the grand finale of the rest of my life.