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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That morning I had called on a job opening I heard about. I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of working there for various reasons, the biggest one being that it was such a chaotic, high energy place on weekend nights that the thought of fighting to walk through the crowd that occasionally gathered around the bar and yelling over the loud music just to take an order exhausted me. But it was the best chance at a job I’d had since moving to Australia so I gave it a go. Mark explained to me over the phone that unless I had worked for their company before, they didn’t hire people with my visa because of the lengthy training period. I couldn’t stand to face another solid day of job searching and rejections so in a last-ditch attempt at gaining an interview short of begging for it, I did make the promise that he would like me in person. At 4 pm that afternoon I was ushered in to the strangest and longest restaurant interview of my life.

I first met with Collette, the self-proclaimed filter for potential new hirees. Her young, lightly worn face and genuine expressions were a stark contrast to the array of silver achievement badges pinned to her collar, which were not unlike the “pieces of flare” Jennifer Aniston despised wearing in the movie “Office Space”. Our conversation on job-related subjects and interview questions designed to indicate if the interviewee has more self-awareness than sloths who accidentally fall from trees by mistaking their own limbs for branches, was interjected with her side comments that made me believe not every corporate employee was a zombie. I jumped at the chance to explain that Laura Marling was my all-time favorite singer, providing Mumford and Sons as a mainstream example of “folk” music. When Collette replied that she’d heard of Mumford and Sons it was as if reality had grabbed me out of my fantasy world that valued emotional depth and slammed me back into that red vinyl chair with marketing and branding being shoved in my face faster than food was. Let the corporate conditioning begin, I thought.

I began to have some serious doubts about my motivation for being there when Collette left to get Mark. I focused on my breathing as a test-group-approved song wove its way through the dining room, around the wooden beams and bouncing off the walls plastered with the newest trend in graphic design, meant to appeal to the masses. I recalled the pep talk I gave myself on the walk to the bus stop that afternoon. It will be good to make friends, I thought. You need to make some money so you can afford to move, or at the very least go home. It wont be as bad as you think. This is a long walk, maybe if you get this job you can afford to get a car. I looked up in time to see Mark walking to my table. We shook hands and somehow landed on his life story. I had a minor existential crisis as he told me about studying photography in Manchester, working for Condé Nast in the 90s before the digital revolution, and opening a bar in Spain by the sea because it was a childhood dream. I was hearing wisps of my dream life from a man with salt and pepper hair and an air of resiliency, who had burned out his dreams long ago, as we sat there in that corporate red vinyl booth, thousands of miles from either of our homes.

The talk of travel and photography led me to my usual vivid day dreams but soon dissolved into my time to shine. I had been through interviews for worse jobs, all of which I was less desperate for, and I fought my heart out for them. But I suspected I promised too much on this one. It was soon apparent that he was less than impressed with me, and I was feeling the same way. I stumbled over my words, resisting my temptation to tell him I didn’t want charity and thank him for his time and leave. But my ego wasn’t about to give up. There was no way I had sat there for an hour just to have a man, who gave up on dreams I have yet to realize, decide that I was not good enough for this glossed-over, corporate-fed, inoffensively trendy place. In some sort of wild resurgence I ran my finger down the list of my work history that was sitting in front of him, nearly screaming “Look what I’ve done! Look at how many different jobs I’ve had. I used to work road construction! And I’ve got serving experience. I can bullshit with anybody!”

Yes, I used the word “bullshit” in an interview.

This final attempt at making myself seem like more than just a girl, desperate enough for a job to say anything, sufficed for a few moments. But he still wasn’t convinced and after realizing that he was speaking my mind when he voiced his concerns about my bubbliness or lack thereof, I didn’t have any more drive to fight for a job that I wasn’t sure I’d even wanted in the first place; hour and a half and a $2 bus fare be damned. But instead of making his decision just then, he had me join a group of waitresses who were on their break to see what they thought. All seriousness turned into giggles within a few minutes and when Mark had me return to my original table so he could talk to the girls, I could overhear words like “American” and “accent” dotted between more generic crowd-pleasing music that seemed to be louder now that dinner was approaching.

When he came back to talk, he was still apprehensive and unbeknownst to him, so was I. He didn’t speak immediately and my feet were turned towards the door. It was like a really absurd game of chicken. He was risking wasting time and money on my training and I was risking my dignity. Following one last plead about his need for me to be bubbly, he said, “I can’t go against my team…” and with a pause, he held out his hand and said, “Welcome to the team.” I thanked him as I shook his hand, a partially feigned smile on my face, and walked out the door still wondering to myself, What the hell just happened?

Author’s note: Names have been changed to protect identity.

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I boxed up nearly all of my possessions, donated a large portion of my clothes and stored the rest for winter and my eventual return home, took two weeks to say goodbye to everyone I know, and got on the plane.

Putting it that way makes it seem like it was easy. To be honest, I’m not sure if it was easy and I knew what I was doing or if I put my mind and emotions on autopilot to make room for the unknown. October may have been the most emotionally trying month of my life. I had to say goodbye to a very special woman in my life who left us quite suddenly. The weeks I spent between her passing and me leaving were filled with putting as much effort as possible into savoring the life I live and the people in it. I interviewed each one of my mom’s siblings individually as part of a personal video project I’ll be working on for the next year or so. I stuffed myself on so many goodbye lunches, dinners, and drinks that I almost hoped they didn’t have any food in Australia. I took Lacey, the pug I love quite unconditionally, for many walks and we explored parts of my parents’ property that we had never seen before. I watched the World Series with my dad and started to like baseball for the first time ever. I bundled up against the cold to help my mom feed her horses at night. I spent time hanging out with my 16 year-old brother, watching the new Walking Dead episodes every week, screaming and squirming right beside him.

I lived life harder.

I burst into tears as I said goodbye to Lacey the morning I left. And again when my mom and her friends walked me to the security line in Boise. It was like ripping off a bandaid. I had made my decision and I had to go for it. I couldn’t not do it.

I got on the plane.

A high school friend picked me up in Los Angeles for dinner during my layover. We went to a restaurant in Manhattan Beach and I met his girlfriend for the first time. After dinner we walked to the pier and it was incredibly surreal to remember the last time I had seen the Pacific ocean months ago I and how I felt I was going home to the wrong side of it and had actually burst into tears mid-flight. And that night I was flying back to the correct side to be next to the person I belonged with.

After a one-hour delay in our departure from LAX due to having to switch to a smaller plane last minute, and a semi-torturous 15 hour flight that I mostly slept through, I arrived in Melbourne on a breezy, cool sunny spring morning. I couldn’t turn around and run back home. Partly because I sure as hell didn’t want to endure another 24 hours of travel but mostly because I was at peace with where I was. I had flown the nest in a very big way and landed exactly where I was supposed to be.

In the ten or so years we’ve known each other, Dale and I had never done particularly well in life if we had fallen out of touch. I can’t help but wonder if October might have been better if he had been around but the moment I saw him at the arrivals gate made everything worth it. All of the goodbyes and the tears. The fears vanished. I was back in Australia but more importantly finally back with him and ready to start our new adventures together.

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I have heard repeatedly that I need to keep in touch via Facebook when I’m gone. But why? I never posted anything on there anyway, and had long since stopped posting new photos thanks to Facebook’s questionable copyright and user policies. In some instances, the people who have suggested I keep in touch have failed to notice my absence thus, which I find highly amusing in and of itself.

I have in fact spent the past couple of hours on Facebook and I started with the intention of deleting my old photos before I requested to permanently delete my account. I was immediately sucked into reading my news feed and after about 20-30 minutes of scrolling, I gained only four bits of information that could realistically be used to start a conversation in real life. The birth of two babies, a friend who has an in-law moving in with them, and another family is moving.

Out of hundreds of posts and memes and photos of children who will never know a life without social media, two babies were born and two people are moving.

When I read that the one family was moving, I was hit with that familiar punch in the gut. Ever since I graduated high school I have only ever experienced dear loved ones leaving. To school, for a job, on church missions, dying. I have never been on the leaving side until now. To feel both positions starkly contrasted side by side was a little unnerving. Since my decision to move, I hadn’t been able to recall that feeling of being left. That emptiness that only shows its head when the familiar changes and that loss makes itself known. Until this evening when I felt it again. But ultimately, I know this move to Australia is the right thing for me and that deep, resounding knowledge is what has kept me moving forward this whole time.

My next stop was to delete every post and photograph from my photography business account. As I was eliminating old posts, it brought back some heavy feelings of defeat that I had experienced while trying so hard to engage an audience that I doubt even existed. I was reminded of that struggle all over again as the numbers stared me in the face. It was a crushing time for me, and I believe that it stifled my creativity by being more concerned with what would get more “likes” instead of focusing inward and deciding if I even liked my work. It’s truly overwhelming to try gaining acceptance and encouragement from low, impersonal numbers. Square peg, round hole.

It has been empowering, and incredibly appropriate in my opinion, to sift through my old photos and posts and recall the life I had, some of the people who were in it that do not have a place anymore, and to hit the delete button. To shed off these layers of the person I was once but no longer am. A metaphor for starting fresh. I would much rather build my relationships and any business I may have some day the old-fashioned way with face to face contact, sincere letters and emails, and very occasional photos of life’s happenings… probably printed on real paper so that they make us take a moment and pause and the wonder of once again holding something tangible and precious.

The following video was one that I had completely forgotten about until I was deleting the very first posts from my photography business site. It was posted, appropriately, with much passion and optimism. I want to get back to that person.

Days until I leave: 12

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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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I’ll be leaving everything I’ve ever known to be home. I will no longer be surrounded by the same faces, accents, food, nor landmarks. Hell, even Christmas will be in the dead of summer. I’ll be wearing shorts while everyone I know back home will be bundled up against the cold, trying to fight the snow storms and sheer bitter cold when shopping for the holidays.

But it will be worth it. I’m not scared to be in Australia, I’m just overwhelmed with leaving home. Honestly, a change of scenery will be quite refreshing. As much as I love Idaho (and boy, do I), I don’t feel it’s where I should be. My city has felt stagnate for some time now and I just need to get out and experience everything life has in store for me. I’ve never been one for tradition and settling down. I’ve tried it and was absolutely miserable. Moving to Australia is the right choice for me. I just happen to have the added bonus of moving to be with my soul mate.

That being said, I have about 24 days until I leave. My work and holiday visa has been approved, my plane ticket will be purchased soon. All that’s left to do is pack up my entire life and savor these 24 days as much as possible because life, as I know it, will never be the same again.

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