Liverpool Didn't Change. I Did.

These days, I catch myself defending Liverpool in conversations.

The same city I once couldn’t wait to leave.

The same city my parents probably grew tired of hearing me complain about. If there were an award for making sure everyone knew I wasn’t enjoying myself, I would have been shortlisted.

If you’d met me when I first moved here, you would never have believed I’d become the person recommending hidden gems, talking about the warmth of the people, or insisting that the waterfront deserves more credit than it’s given.

You definitely wouldn’t have believed I’d become someone who genuinely wants to contribute to this city while I’m here.

So... what changed?

Not Liverpool.

Me.

Or, more accurately, the lens through which I was looking at it.

I simply stopped asking, ‘Why am I here?’ and started asking, ‘Since I'm here... what can I learn? What can I contribute?’

Complaining is a terrible career choice

There are many jobs you can accidentally apply for in life.

One of the worst is becoming a full-time complainer.

The funny thing about complaining is that it rarely stays in one area. It starts with your job, your city, your boss, your church, your singleness, your finances or your waiting season.

Before long, it quietly becomes your personality. Every conversation bends towards what’s wrong. Every inconvenience becomes further evidence that life is somehow working against you.

And here’s what I’m beginning to realise: Complaining doesn’t just reveal your perspective; it reinforces it.

The more you complain, the more your mind begins collecting evidence to prove you’re right.

It trains your eyes to notice everything that’s missing while completely overlooking what’s already present. Excuses work in much the same way. They feel protective in the moment, but over time they become a veil.

You stop asking, “What’s possible here?” because you’ve already convinced yourself there isn’t much.

That was me.

When I arrived in Liverpool, I wasn’t really seeing Liverpool. I was seeing every other city I’d lived in before. Every comparison made this one feel like it was falling short. Without realising it, I’d decided the verdict before I’d even given the place a fair hearing.

And isn’t that how we often move through life?

We compare this season to the last one. This relationship to the previous one. This opportunity to the one we wish we’d had. We become so occupied with what something isn’t that we never discover what it is.

The right place can still look wrong through the wrong lens

Then something shifted.

Not overnight. There wasn’t some dramatic movie moment where everything suddenly became beautiful. It was much quieter than that.

I simply stopped asking, “Why am I here?” and started asking, “Since I’m here... what can I learn? What can I contribute?”

That single shift opened doors I didn’t even know I’d been walking past.

I began noticing things I’d previously ignored. The history woven into the streets. The character of the city. The kindness of strangers. The conversations waiting to happen. The communities quietly doing remarkable work.

I found myself asking how I could serve, how I could integrate, how I could leave this place better than I found it.

Then another thought hit me.

What if I’m not here forever?

That sounds obvious, but it changed everything.

One of the lies we quietly believe is that life begins after this season. After this city. After this job. After we’re married. After the promotion. After we finally move. But the truth is, even if the postcode never changes, you will.

You’re not going to be the same version of yourself in the same place forever. You're not going to be the newest person in the office forever. You're not going to be single forever, or childless forever, or even have the same responsibilities forever. Every season is temporary because you are changing, even when your surroundings aren't.

So why waste it?

Why spend months, maybe even years, complaining about a chapter that was meant to grow you?

The uncomfortable seasons often become our greatest classrooms. They reveal parts of our character we didn’t know existed. They expose our impatience, stretch our resilience, deepen our compassion, and sometimes uncover gifts that comfort never would have introduced us to.

There’s not much formation happening when life feels like one long party.

Growth usually has rough edges.

Trust makes room for discovery

I think this is where trust quietly enters the conversation.

Not the kind of trust that pretends everything is perfect, but the kind that remembers you’re not carrying life by yourself.

If I really believe God is intentional, then perhaps my first response shouldn’t always be, “Lord, get me out of here.”

Perhaps it should be, “Lord, open my eyes.”

What am I meant to see?

What are You trying to grow in me?

Who am I meant to serve while I’m here?

The Apostle Paul writes, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28)

I still don’t know how long I’ll be in Liverpool. Maybe years. Maybe not. But these days, I’m no longer trying to survive the city. I’m trying to steward my time in it.

I’m learning its stories, serving its people, noticing the things I would have walked past before. Somewhere along the way, I realised that complaining had been costing me far more than my peace; it was costing me perspective.

And I wonder if the same is true for you.

Maybe your Liverpool isn’t a city at all. Maybe it’s a job you can’t wait to leave, a course you didn’t choose, a church that doesn’t look like you imagined, a difficult season in your marriage, the long wait for a prayer to be answered, or simply the ordinary rhythm of life that feels painfully underwhelming compared to what you thought it would be.

I’m not saying every situation should be endured forever.

Some places genuinely are unhealthy, and wisdom sometimes means leaving. But before you spend all your energy complaining about where you are, ask yourself a different question:

What if the very thing I’m complaining about is the place where God is trying to teach me something, grow something in me, or reveal an opportunity I’ve been too frustrated to notice?

Scripture puts it this way:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5–6)

Maybe this week, the invitation isn’t to pretend everything is perfect. It’s simply to stop handing complaints the microphone.

Trade them for curiosity. Replace excuses with responsibility. Ask better questions. Trust that God is already at work where your feet are planted.

You may just discover, as I did with Liverpool, that the place you were most eager to escape becomes the place that quietly and beautifully changes you.

Originally published on OJG's Voice on 6 July 2026.