Who are you when the flock stops watching?
Last year, I moved from London to Edinburgh. I never thought of myself as a performer, but it wasn’t until I left the city that I realised how much of my life there had been lived for an audience I barely liked.
London is too big to be seen all at once, so you try to stand out however you can. Performance felt ambient: eyeliner winged, rings on, charity-shop skirt. The TfL commute became a catwalk of curated wit. Looking back, I lived like one of many, measuring myself quietly, unconsciously. You learn quickly how to take up space there. You are your accolades, the ones no one names, but everyone reads: what you wear and how you present yourself. Timed laughs. Watching eyes. And if I’m honest, a part of me liked that.
Then I moved to Scotland.
Here, no one really cares what I’m wearing or whether I seem interesting. If anything, the weather actively discourages that kind of effort. The wind and hail shut down all performances. Practicality wins. There’s only a puffer jacket, zipped to the chin, doing its job. The hills don’t judge. They’re slow, steady, and unmoved by attempts at self-presentation. I began to wonder: what part of me remains when the audience goes home early?
At first, it felt like a loss—a shedding, or to lean into the landscape: a shearing.
In London, I knew my cues: be quick, be clever, be productive, be someone. There was a script, and I followed it instinctively. Here, the script flips. Days pass without small talk. Conversations are kinder, fewer, and functional. I walk alone on muddy paths outside the city, and to my surprise, I’m happy. The hills are terrifyingly quiet. Sheep sometimes lift their heads as I approach, mildly curious, then return to grazing. I am utterly unimportant in their world.
Being unimportant startled me at first. I wasn’t used to it. But then I realised there’s a strange freedom in being unremarkable. On those first lonely yet liberating walks, I began to notice what had been drowned out before: the smell of wet grass, the way clouds move, the bite of cold air in my lungs, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. Silence has texture. Thoughts sound different when they’re not competing with constant noise.
Here, identity isn’t performed; it’s uncovered. I don’t need to be busy to feel real. Stillness is allowed.
It turns out I’d rather be a person among sheep than a sheep among people. In London, loneliness felt like disconnection in a crowd. In Scotland, solitude feels more like an invitation.
I’m still learning how to exist without performing. The hills don’t watch. The sheep don’t care. And somewhere on my own stretch of hillside, I’m meeting a version of myself that doesn’t ask to be seen.