London calling

 

You can’t fix things you don’t know are broken, and that is how it started—without me realizing that something inside me was already shifting long before London. I don’t blame London for having stolen pieces of me; I just wish I had known how to put myself back together again after the flight coming back “home.” Because at that time, I believed I was living two lives at once, one life for myself and one life for my dreams… and somehow London became both. It was the travel of my life, but also the investment of my life, and I kept telling myself it would pay off incredibly well. and it did! I had the courage to wish for more, I said, because fairy tales can come true—it can happen to you, to me, if you’re young at heart. My own fairy tale came true.

And I was.

So London taught me that people come and go, to stay strong, because it can rain anytime—be ready or deal with it, literally and metaphorically. I learned as well that London is an amazing city if you’re curious enough to see it, and I was curious about everything—the streets, the accents, the rhythm, the way life moves differently there. London was the capital, but Manchester had the soul, with the music, the bars, the vibe. I remember someone once told me that London would steal my heart—it was true—and maybe that’s why London felt like a place where everything happens, but also where everything can disappear.

Including me.

I don’t understand yet a lot of why. I would like to believe that two souls do not meet by chance, that there was a reason—maybe I needed a place like London to discover what I truly want in my life, maybe London needed to change something in me and I let it to do it. Or maybe it was just one of those moments that feel bigger than they are, like sunsets that prove even endings can be beautiful too. Yesterday is past, but today is a gift because you’re living right now, and still, I found myself wanting to stay in yesterday a little longer, in the version of the story where I was still there.

I’m dying to find out if yeverything that happened was as good in real life as it was in my fantasies. That thought stayed with me longer than I expected. It sat quietly in my mind while everything else kept moving—while I kept moving.

Because life doesn’t stop. It never stopped.

But I had to let it go. I let you my dear London be free of my overwhelming fondness. I thanked you for making my life there unforgettable, for pushing my English further than my own limits, for showing me a little about your life. It hurts because it wasn’t meant to be. We were meant to meet, but not to remain. And still, it was wonderful to have had feelings. It reminds us that we’re alive. I wished that some nights lasted forever, and that became less of a wish and more of a quiet regret.

But once in Paris, a fortnight later, I started to believe that everything had been a dream. I was there, avoiding the sun, when suddenly I saw fire engines everywhere—messy, loud, chaotic—and I smiled. I thought, let’s take a picture, let’s share this moment with people… and then I realized I couldn’t. Because nobody would undertand what happened to me anymore. I also wanted to share that I could finally understand English jokes—I wanted to test myself, to see if someone would laugh, to prove something small but important to me. Instead, I went to a church and prayed. I asked God for peace, for wisdom, and I said thank you. And as I promised, I prayed for you for me and for the people. 

And finally that day, I missed you so much London.

While life kept moving anyway. Guess what—I took the right train. I didn’t make a mistake, but I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t tell that I was planning my trip to the airport either, or that I chose the train from Victoria instead of King’s Cross because I’m terrible with trains. It was annoying and funny at the same time, and it felt incomplete not being able to share it. I had the opportunity to say “see you later” and give a proper hug to every person I met there… except you London. That broke my heart more than I expected.

Then Bilbao. Green mountains, fog, a landscape that looked like Colombia. Home. My parents, my brother—they are my home, my north, my safe space. I love my family the way you hold your own history. There were so many things I never expressed, so many thoughts that stayed in my mind because my English wasn’t enough to comunicate around. I wanted to share that with London too. I wanted to show it where I come from—the mountains, the coffee plantations, the magic, the joy.

Back to London. Back to where I feel I belong. I will fight for it, I told myself. At the end everything will be fine, and if it doesn’t feel right, it’s because it’s not the end. But still, I kept asking myself—could it be easy to start over?

My body answered before my mind did. I never got ill in the UK, not once, and suddenly back “home” my stomach was a nightmare. Painful, overwhelming. Maybe it wasn’t food. Maybe it was sadness. I belong to London, I know it. Even small things reminded me that city—buying gifts, choosing chocolates, remembering your corners in South Kensinton. Still missing you. Until we meet again my dear city, I thought—but we never did.

And finally the book closed. Eight days after leaving London, I couldn’t take the idea out of my head—I wanted to go back and build a life there, for me, for my dreams, because there I was able to be me—not my position, not my title, not my background, just me. But then reality crushed me: the job, a stable life, friends and family who love me deeply. The feeling of being surrounded by people who love you is unique. And still, I couldn’t let go of London. I just couldn’t.

So I decided to pray again. Dear God, help me take the wise decision. Help me not hurt the people who love me. Help me understand what I want and what I need. Give me peace.

But time has taught me to let it go. Instead, I was holding on to memories. I read a book about England with conversations happening in London, which reminded me myselft there. I didn’t want to forget what I lived there, but I deleted all the traces, so those words now only live in my mind… I found you with my heart London, and I hope that sometimes I could be able to remember myself as the girl from the other side of the Atlantic—the joyful girl with broken English and full of light.

So for long I tried to bury London deep in my mind, to leave it as a beautiful memory. But starting over means letting go again. And while I was chatting with my girls, one of them said: you don’t have a heart. But the truth is, I found my heart and broke it in London.

Missing you—

you, my version, my best self…

missing you, London.

Karen.

Mi Sloan Fellow.

Hace un año ya sabía que me venía a Sloan, también sabía que Paula se iba del banco y que su portafolio de clientes sería mío. Sabía que no había ni una sola excusa posible del banco para subirme el salario; eso habría representado más bono, un portafolio más interesante. No solo me lo había ganado con paciencia y esfuerzo, había demostrado hacerlo muy bien. Además, sabía que podía aprender de Yankees y que eso abriría más mis puertas y mi seniority, y si me hubiera quedado, seguiría siendo trader institucional y conocería aún más el mercado local, manejaría los fondos de pensiones y las fiduciarias grandes, habría seguido rumbeando, habría comprado otro apto y me habría mudado a uno más grande, quizás hasta estaría embarazada, ¡¿quién sabe?! Definitivamente habría visitado ya Japón con mi mamá, pero no tendría amigos japoneses 💔. 

Si me hubiera quedado en Bogotá, hoy estaría felicitando a David por su fancy new position en Colsubsidio, y quizás yo estaría tomando su cargo de director de tesorería en Lulo Bank. Era cuestión de tiempo irme de Davivienda, era cuestión de tiempo tener más dinero, era cuestión de tiempo “crecer”. Si me hubiera quedado, quizás habría aplicado a HBS y estaría preparándome para irme a Harvard, o no, porque también existía la posibilidad de que me hubiera conformado con la vida, como tantas veces John ha querido, y habría dejado ese sueño de estudiar afuera y de mi carrera internacional.

Si me hubiera quedado, mi trade-off habría sido no ser Slonie, no ser MIT, y no habría conocido a Manu con su capacidad mágica de leer a la gente. Y no habría tenido una little sis como Peggy para reírme, llorar y divertirnos tanto. No habría hecho una amistad con Shota en un inglés roto al principio, pero profundamente sincera, y no habría tenido un millón de conversaciones con Néstor acerca de lo divino y lo humano, con té, mucho té… No habría ido a Providence con Jay, no tendría a mi Susi y su paz, no habría reído con Juli o estudiado con Pedro. Cristina y Sandra no habrían conocido a mis papás, me habría perdido todos los emoticones de Omar, no habría aprendido de liderazgo, y no habría vivido un año en Cambridge/Boston. 

No habría viajado a esquiar, no conocería PR, no habría hecho skydiving ni celebrado mi cumpleaños mágico en Las Vegas. No habría pintado un cuadro, no habría aprendido de avant-garde, no habría llorado de frustración, de tristeza, y no habría crecido tanto como lo hice este último año. Sin duda, no tendría a mi clase de Fellows con sus 43 países y sus 116 personalidades. 

Si me hubiera quedado en Bogotá, no podría ver el río Charles todos los días desde mi ventana. No estaría a punto de graduarme del MBA de mis sueños con el corazón gigante de alegría. Y aunque la incertidumbre del trabajo me abruma, de no saber qué va a pasar en los meses que vienen, no habría sido tan feliz como lo fui este último año. Gracias, Dios, gracias universo, y gracias a Karen, que sacrificó todo y saltó al vacío, para que Estefanía por fin pudiera ser feliz. 😊 

 Estefania.