Personal Landmarks: A Map of Trauma in London

For me, London is defined by its street names, locations, and urban landmarks. Over the past 14 years, these elements (and more!) have left very distinctive mark on me. My London, first and foremost, is the one I came to know as a courier. I memorised all the addresses—Soho’s townhouses, the glass and steel skyscrapers in the City, and the many other places I delivered to. That was pre-smart phone era, so the famous A to Z map became my best friend for three years. This experience formed the foundational layer of my "London skin".

Later, as I became an operations controller, these addresses took on a more digital form. They became combinations of postcodes (EC2M or EC2N—who can tell the difference? Well, I can, as I’ve become a bit of a postcode geek!), each just another place to send a delivery.

Then there’s another layer—my social life in London, full of moments, encounters, people, and unexpected events scattered throughout the city.

After 14 years, this collection of experiences has become My Map of London. Some of these places evoke fond memories—warm ones I’d gladly revisit. Others are just memories, reminders of things that happened here and there, at certain points in time.

And then there are the places that hold trauma. Trauma, as Gabor Maté says (and I’m paraphrasing here), isn’t just about what happened to you, but about how the experience reverberates through your mind and body.

There are a lot of trauma places for me in London. Some are places I couldn’t go back to for years because the memories were still raw and vivid, and I just wasn’t ready to face them. These places could be streets, corners, or even whole neighbourhoods. If I do go back, even now, the bitterness of the memory can still overwhelm me—too much to enjoy the place, no matter how nice the surroundings or the atmosphere. So, I avoid them until I’m ready to confront them.

One such place is just 300 metres away from me, as the crow flies: one of my ex’s mother’s houses. It sounds a bit silly, doesn’t it? But for four years, I wouldn’t even step onto that street, let alone walk past the house. Four years. Eventually, I realised how powerful it is to rip off the bandage when the time is right. It can be both healing and empowering.

At first, I would run past that house, then later, I found myself walking by it, thinking less and less about the Christmases we spent together. Now, I barely notice the house at all. It’s just another house on the street, like all the others.

Still, I feel conflicted. I believe in facing those wounds and healing, but I also remind myself that there’s a time for everything. It’s like taking a cold shower—refreshing and invigorating, but you need to take a deep breath before you embrace the sharp sting of the cold water.

And that’s where I’ll leave this first post, after almost a year.