I’ve officially been back in Australia for a week. At home, if I can call it that. It’s a strange feeling and one I wasn’t prepared for. I kept feeling like I should have a return ticket booked for London and I shouldn’t be unpacking all of my suitcases. My floor is still covered in clothes and my heart is somewhere else. People tell you that it’s hard to move somewhere new and start your life over, but what they fail to mention is how hard it is to return to your previous life. A familiar life that you have outgrown. A life that no longer feels like yours. I find myself once again at odds with being a twenty-something without a road map, finding a home in this sunburnt country that seems old and new at the same time.

The child who left

When I grew up, I never thought I would be the child out of our family who left. The one that people talked about but often wasn’t there. I always wanted to be amongst the chaos. I thought this experience of living abroad would simply be that – an experience. But instead, I came to feel at ease with being away. It made me feel like home should – safe and comforted. I still fought to make my life and myself better, as I always have, but it was a fight that I could stand by and put my name on. It was my own. But maybe I am the child who left. Maybe I will disappoint my family by packing up and leaving for good.

Belonging

After building some of the strongest friendships I ever have, it was so hard to leave. I chose to say see you soon instead of goodbye, because I couldn’t bear the thought of never crossing paths with them again. Quite wrongly of me, I found home in people. I found a place that I felt I belonged and was accepted for the person that I was. Not the person that grew up south of the river in Perth, or the person who constantly competed with her brother because she felt like she could never measure up. I was free to be me. But the thing about finding home in people is that you can’t always take them with you.

Capability

Since leaving home at the beginning of last year, I have developed a great deal. I’ve learnt how to be more independent, how to make worthwhile friendships, and how to be brave and stand up for myself (for the most part). All my life, I’ve had this compulsive urge to do everything myself – to refuse help just to prove that I can do it. That I am capable. That I am no longer a helpless child. It’s probably because there’s still a part of me that believes I’m not capable of any of this. A part of me that can’t trust myself to make any grown-up decisions or guide my life in any one direction. Going home almost feels like a step backwards – especially when I have come so far.

Direction

When your life becomes so open-ended with no clear direction, it can be overwhelming. Finding a place to call home, when the place you used to call home feels strange – that’s also overwhelming. Home should be a place that makes us feel capable of creating the best versions of ourselves. It should also be a place of safe haven when we need it. Over the last few months, I have struggled to write. I’ve felt like I have shared more problems than solutions. But the truth is, if the only thing that comes from this time of writing is a series of lost, lonely and miserable posts, then at least I will have a record of what my twenties were like. A journal that consists of every emotion I felt, every person that touched my heart, and the adventures that I so honestly and uncertainly participated in. If I continue along this road, I’m bound to find home somewhere along the way. Right?

Yours,

Kait x

Cover photo by Caroline Cagnin