Goodbye Melbourne - Written in April 2022. Still true in April 2025.
I wrote this piece back in April 2022, and it feels poetic that it still holds relevance now, three years later, in April 2025. I’ve left most of it unchanged. It speaks to something tender about the way time carries us—sometimes with a gust, other times with the softest nudge from one place to the next.
A Life Between Countries
If privilege is a special right given only to a few, then the right to live in more than one country by choice is mine. But it’s not weightless—it’s also one of my heaviest burdens.
I moved to Melbourne, via Newcastle and Sydney, in 2009. I was 22—young, brave, and completely unprepared. It was the scariest, most transformative adventure of my life, and ultimately, the best decision I ever made.
Now, sixteen years on, my husband and I find ourselves longing for something we can only call “home.” And strangely, home feels like the UK—even though we’ve spent most of our adult lives here in Australia. I understand the pull for my husband—he is, after all, British. But I was born in Australia, moved to the UK in my early years, and now I find myself questioning which place I truly belong to.
The Guilt of Choice
There’s guilt that comes with having options. Guilt that I can even consider swapping one dream life for another. I think of those who must leave their countries because they’re not safe, because of persecution, because staying would mean danger. I wonder if my decision—about which beautiful, peaceful place to call home—is too indulgent to even write about.
Still, the feeling persists. An awareness that this choice, while technically mine, is shaped by invisible systems: where I was born, who my parents are, the accident of citizenship. Borders drawn by people I’ll never know.
So I ask myself often: Am I overusing the privilege I was given? Am I taking for granted this ability to pack up and start again somewhere new?
Imagine a world where everyone had that same freedom.
A Love Letter, from Both Sides
If my husband were to write a farewell to Melbourne, I imagine it would go like this:
“Moving to Australia allowed me to dream big, to try scary things, to fall down often and get back up without apology. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. You forced me to grow.
It’s not that I’ve fallen out of love with you, Melbourne. It’s just… maybe I was always in love with somewhere else.
The UK, my first home, needed me to go away and grow before she could reveal herself as my true love.”
It’s not selfish. It’s not planned. It’s ironic—how the things you ran from are the very things that pull you back.
And me? I follow, not just because I love him, but because I understand. As a hopeful nomad, all I really need is a laptop, some books, a kettle, a patch of countryside, and a yoga mat. I will follow him home and find a new version of myself there too.
My goodbye letter to Melbourne? It's still forming. But for now, I’ll say: Thank you. I will miss you.
Is Impermanence a Kind of Freedom?
I wrote this part after I’d left, with our belongings crammed into storage and no solid plan in sight. All we knew was that we’d be in the UK around October to “test the waters” and explore what home might feel like now.
Do we want a home? Do we need one? Maybe not in the traditional sense. What I’ve come to realise is that I can settle almost anywhere after a few weeks. Maybe home is less of a location, and more of a construct. Maybe he is home. Wherever he feels at home, I can be too.
And while the idea of moving still fills me with dread (let’s be honest—it might just be the packing), the not knowing fills me with curiosity. It makes me feel free. We’re following the signs. Looking for those moments when clarity will rise to the surface. Who knows—maybe we’ll end up in Mexico next?
The Practice of Trust
I never believed in affirmations—until I needed one.
For the past 18 months, I’ve been playing with the idea of trusting myself. Of trusting my choices. Of tuning in and knowing myself well enough to leap. And this current chapter? It's filled with nothing but unknowns.
So, every day, I return to that word: trust.
Trust in timing.
Trust in my partner.
Trust in myself.
Surrendering to the Unwritten
So I ask you:
What question in your life have you left unanswered?
What place are you longing to be?
What person are you becoming?
What thing do you still need to try?
Everything you want is possible—but only when you surrender to not knowing exactly how or when it will come.
What boundaries do you need to lay down in order to explore your freedom?
What rules no longer belong to the life you're creating?
These are the questions that carry me now, as we journey forward—without a map, but with trust, love, and open hearts.
