In just under two weeks, we’re getting on a plane. We’re saying goodbye and jetting off to Thailand for a bit and then on home (via long layovers in Tokyo and Los Angeles). I’ve gone through this all before. The goodbyes, the silent desperation to cling to anything that truly means “home”, the hastily planned lunches and dinners, the heaviness of last looks. But I hadn’t expected to have to endure it all again. Sure, I knew I would eventually return home for a bit, but I thought that I’d get out relatively unscathed. And I knew that Dale would accompany me on my next departing flight from Australia. But I was blindsided by the sadness of leaving again.

I didn’t exactly feel like I soared in my last nine months here since leaving the nest. That in itself was a wake up call for me. But just as I was standing back up, dusting myself off, and getting ready to walk out the door, I was invited further in. Acquaintances and sort-of friends suddenly became staples in my weekly routine. Girl time over healthy lunches (usually involving avocado in some form) happened. Conversations of shared hopes and dreams took place. Drinks were had and inside jokes were shared. I got close and now it hurts.

Above all else, my time in Australia has taught me the importance of community. Of not being alone. Of having that support system in place. One of my favorite movies, About a Boy, uses that exact premise. The main character, Will, was just floating along in life until it’s shaken up by a boy, Marcus, who needs him. Will’s life is never the same and he is the better for it. I always took my support system back home for granted. But now I don’t. I now have two communities. Two homes in two hemispheres. My life will never be fully, 100% in one place again. And I am the better for it, no matter how much it hurts.

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As you might imagine, being a girl means that I have a lot of clothes. But really, if you knew me, you wouldn’t think that makes sense. I’ve always been more tomboy than not and I couldn’t dress a mannequin in a store even if you handed me the clothes. I’m girl dumb.

But no, I do have a lot of clothes. I mean, a lot. At least a couple hundred pieces. Not everything fits me, some I keep for sentimental value, and some I just plain never wear at all. I have dresses I’ve worn only once, if at all. Pants that only get worn when I work. Clothes that have been given to me that I would’ve never in a million years picked for myself. Obviously, a two bag limit restricts me from packing up my entire wardrobe and taking it with me. Which is a good thing. The very first thing I did in preparation for moving was to sort through all my clothes. Despite it taking two and a half days and having to persevere through a terrible cold…

It was liberating.

Considering what I started with, my “keep” pile is really quite admirable. It also helped that many of the heavy winter clothes that I need to survive a bitter Idaho winter will never be remotely needed in sub-tropical Australia. Cleaning out my closet and losing a bit of the old me is not only a very appropriate metaphor, but it just feels good to have less clutter. I want, nay, crave a simple life with very little material possessions.

In fact, many of my things are in storage from the last two times I moved. I realized a long time ago that, aside from some very specific books, I couldn’t tell you half of what is in the boxes. And what’s more, I obviously don’t need or miss any of those things until I see them again and I think my only real attachment to them is the sentimental value. Many of the things in my room are just knick knacks and space-consumers. I really look forward to continuing the declutteration of my life as I move forward. Because really, I can’t take it with me when I go.

Days until I leave: 20.

Only about two thirds of the way through.

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