Australia for 8 days
My trip home had me feeling the opposite of nostalgic.
I was super excited to take my kids back to Australia this summer. Delusion, amnesia, whatever you want to call it - at almost five and six, I figured they would finally be easier. And they were for the most part! 13 hours on a plane is a long time for anyone, let alone two kids who climb the walls for a living. I filled them with snacks and gave them unlimited iPad time, which probably had something to do with their general compliance. Jet lag was brutal, especially since we were only there for eight days (I basically turned them around just in time to turn them right back), but they managed it really well and I was proud of them.
I was thrilled when we finally landed. Just beyond excited to show them the place I grew up, at an age where they could appreciate it (if you’re thinking about taking a two-year-old to Australia - travel at your own peril). They’ve always heard me talk about it with so much love. The food is incredible, there are parks everywhere - better than anything I’ve seen in most cities - the coffee is a fifteen out of ten. People are kind. Health care is accessible. And there are no guns. The dream.
We made the most of our time. A new park every day, visits with friends and family I hadn’t seen in years, afternoons where the kids could run and play freely. I was blown away by how safe it all felt. Kids were riding their bikes to school without parents watching, playing outside without anyone hovering. Obviously the world is never without risk, but it was the kind of environment that makes you believe in the possibility of a truly happy childhood. And it reminded me that mine was, in many ways, exactly that.
But alongside all of those good things, I felt something else. I had this gnawing anxiety the entire time I was there. I couldn’t shake it. And I couldn’t wait to get back to America. At first I didn’t understand why I felt so uneasy, but eventually I realized what it was.
I didn’t like the version of myself that existed in Australia the last few years before I left. I was an anxious teenager. Insecure. Wrapped up in things that now, as a thirty-seven year old, feel completely meaningless. I cared about how I looked, whether boys liked me, if I seemed cool enough. I cannot even imagine what I would have been like if we’d had Instagram or Tiktok. Every little thing that could make me feel less-than had the power to ruin my day.
And being back in those same places brought all of it rushing back. Driving down familiar streets, seeing old schools, walking into the shopping centers I used to frequent, I felt that girl again. And I really did not want to.
Because I’ve been gone for so long, I haven’t had the chance to create new memories there as the person I am now. The version of me who actually likes herself. Who trusts her instincts. Who knows what matters and what doesn’t. Who feels steady in her choices and her values. That lack of new memories made it feel like I was stuck reliving a version of myself I worked hard to outgrow.
I also wasn’t with Andy this time. He’s such a stabilizing presence in my life, and maybe it would have felt different if he was there. More grounded. As it was, I often felt like I was drifting, uneasy in my own skin.
It makes me wonder if it will always feel this way. Maybe when the kids are older and we can spend longer stretches there without the chaos of jet lag and sleep deprivation, it will shift. Maybe I’ll finally have the chance to create new memories that belong to this version of me. But part of me thinks it might never fully change.
Because at some point, probably in my late twenties and definitely in my thirties, I started curating the life I really wanted. I became deliberate about the people I surrounded myself with, the community I built, the values I leaned into. And as much as I love my family and friends back home (and I really do - the night I spent with my high school girlfriends felt like no time had passed, and seeing my sweet sweet brother for the first time in three years was such a joy), the truth is that the life I want is the one I’ve created here.
That realization hit me hard. It was an epiphany, and a slightly uncomfortable one. I will always treasure my roots. I will always love where I came from. But the life that feels like mine is the one I’ve built now, far from those old streets. And accepting that has been an unexpected gift.
Hello Claire! You spoke in the beginning of this essay, like where you came from was one person, and where you are now, is another; like one was the train station and the other the train... and it's moving, and you're trying to board it, or reconcile the two.
I don't think you should see them as seperate versions of your life, ("But the life that feels like mine is the one I’ve built now,") but as one life, with different surroundings. Embrace your origins. Like you said, "And accepting that has been an unexpected gift," but don't run away from it.
Who you are today is a direct result of where you came from and the teenage girl you were.
Didn't you say once that you were having the kids watch H2O? How did that go?
No offense, I just read all I can about people born 6/11. It’s a quirk when you wanna get to know someone when you share the same day. Gene Wilder Joe Montana, Adrienne Barbeau, Chad Everett, just a hobby so I know who to say happy birthday too😎🙏🏼 you have my prayers dealing with kids. They are a blessing.