Love, Anyways

What do you want that you already have? – Danielle Laporte

Last January, like every January, I picked a word for the year. A nice big generic one called LOVE.

That’ll do, I thought!

And then I forgot all about it.

I wasn’t trying to fool the Universe or myself into thinking that if I picked the word “love”, romance would once again show up. I had grown rather exhausted by romantic love, and writing about it too.

I felt quite free from its grips even. 30 had brought with it a wave of “Fuck it!” – or maybe I was just a sucker for the marketing of all those newly published books with “fuck” in the title.

What I mean is that I didn’t pick the word ‘love’ because I wanted to be someone else’s girlfriend.

I meant that I wanted to make decisions, tiny and large, for the love of them. No more obligation, no more wasting time watching or reading something I wasn’t all that into. I wanted to do things because I loved doing them, period.

Once I was satisfied with my intention for 2017, I didn’t think much more about it because I was too busy having fun beside the ocean and falling in all kinds of…love.

January suddenly turned into April and I had to come home to Calgary for a whole lot of logistical reasons. Visas and property ownership and bridesmaid duties and such. What I really wanted was to keep sitting on my favourite cliff in the Australian sun. What made it all so much more heart-wrenching was that to my great surprise, when I really truly wasn’t looking for it, romantic love had sucker punched me in the gut like I hadn’t known before.

I really didn’t want any of it to end. I had never wanted time to stop so badly.

But reality called and I had no choice but to answer.

I sat in a lawyer’s office signing documents to take possession of a condo that had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now felt like a massive weight strapped to my ankle. And my home town wasn’t exactly bursting with job opportunities.

It took me exactly 10 days of feeling sorry for myself in between IKEA trips with my Mom to snap out if it.

I learned something very important in the eight months I spent at home last year.

I learned to love what was in front of me.

This. Counts. Too. I told myself.

No matter what was waiting for me down the road, I wasn’t going to treat that chunk of time like it was a means to an end. Like it was just a little blip in between getting back to loving life. I would never be that ungrateful.

It didn’t mean I couldn’t be sad, because for a little while I was.

But when I flipped my perspective on its head, what happened was that I loved those eight months at home so much more than I thought possible.  Way more than I imagined I could sitting in that lawyer’s office last May. And all of the reasons why I loved them so much are recorded messily in a diary dated May 11th, 2017 – April 22nd, 2018 which I’ll cherish, always. Probably even more than the one written in the previous year where it had never been so easy to love where I was.

I learned to love what was in front of me, whether I liked it or not.

What a year ago taught me was really important – When things are harder than I’d like them to be I tell myself again that this counts too. 

I read a poem in university and to this day its message still rings little chimes of clarity in me. I have forgotten the poet and the title, but not what it meant to me. It was about how the past has a funny way of orbing into a perfect star. You can’t usually see it while you’re in the thick of it. It’s only after some time has passed that you can look back and see the perfection that was your existence.

Time will pass whether I want it to or not. I try and remember that I don’t want to wait for the future to see all of the gold that was surrounding me. That is surrounding me.

My word for 2018 is grounded. Originally I thought about that word in terms of feeling at home in Sydney again, in a new routine – all the surface level stuff.

I recently found a new yoga studio that I’m obsessed with. The word “grounded” has been uttered in every class I’ve been to, and I get goosebumps every time. Maybe yoga teachers always say this word and I’m just hearing it differently. Maybe I’ve always had this capacity to love what was in front of me and this last year just helped me feel it differently.

I was far from grounded early this year as I went from the snowy forests of Alberta to the hot sands of Mexico to the even hotter sands of Sydney, finally back in the place my soul wanted to be.

Adjusting to life here again has been harder than I thought. But what I do feel grounded in is my decision to love it anyways, even the hard days. I won’t wait for some unpromised future to love what I already have. xo

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A Birthday Rant.

I entered my thirties a couple of weeks ago.

I kept being asked how I felt about it. “You must have some thoughts,” a friend prompted me over pizza on the eve of my celebrations.

I wasn’t shy to admit that there was this new kind of panic surfacing, one I had yet to experience in the glorious booze induced decade that was my twenties. That forever young attitude suddenly felt fleeting. But in my center, I still felt calm. I knew I was going to be okay, more than okay, but I still needed to remind myself to breathe – breathe and remember everything I had done, loved, and learned.

The last twenty-four months or so has sometimes felt like running towards an invisible finish line. The finish line being this particular birthday, one that included a whole lot of expectations that sounded like, “Time to grow up now,” or, “You should have x by now.”

But I was expecting those feelings, and I also know better than to let my mind wander down the dark hole of, “Where did I go wrong?” just because life doesn’t look like how I thought it would.   

I thought surely by now there would be big pay cheques and an unshakable confidence. But I actually think I need my friends and family even more. I’ve let go of the idea that I have to fake it til I make it and act like a proper grown up when what I really feel like doing is being honest and saying, “I feel lost.” I still call my Mom and ask her stupid questions about cooking chicken. The stock market still confuses me. And I still can’t decide if I want bangs or not. What I do have at thirty is a whole lot of freedom and choice, which is what I had at eighteen too, but this time I’ve got a swack of life lessons to add to the decision making. Like, “Remember what happened last time you cut your own bangs.”

What I wasn’t expecting was the plethora of people who have commented on how I look.

If one more person tells me, “You look good for thirty,” I’m going to lose my shit. Or at least go find someone else to talk to. I watch their eyes scanning my face for lines and looking my body up and down, God knows what for.

It’s the obsession with youth and perfection that I’m beginning to see more clearly that is bothering me. Every year there’s another piece of myself that I could be “enhancing” – the faking of cheekbones, the drawing in of eyebrows, and since when is a good side-boob is thing??? Now that I’m in my thirties, the attitude seems to be that everything is going downhill and I’ll be lucky if I can pull off said side-boob. 

I think this attitude is ignorant and an insult to every other decade we’ll be lucky enough to see and live through. Tell me I look happy, or radiant, or that I seem more like myself. Because those feelings are what I want to chase, not a face with no laugh lines. Or, maybe I look haggard because I’m probably really tired from all of the wine I drank the night before having FUN. But stop telling me I look good for thirty as if I should have just morphed into some unrecognizable version of my former self.

I fucking love the sunshine. The wrinkles are coming and so are many more sunny vacations. I hope I’ll be so lucky. 

The annoying and cliche panic about turning this age has subsided and there’s this deeper knowing inside of me, residing somewhere in my rib cage, that feels incredibly contented. I suppose where I’ve ended up is this place where I’ve realized I can make my own To Do List, and that I already have been all along. It’s that cool aha moment where you realize you already are so many of the things you wanted to be. And also, I’m never going to tell another female that she looks good for her age. 

Rage-inducing back-handed compliments aside, thirty does feel really good, in case you’re wondering. 

The best part about that forever young attitude is the energy of it – feeling like the world’s your oyster. I think it still is and can be for a long, long time. And it’s an even better feeling when you know enough about yourself to decide whether you even like oysters. 

Thank you to all of the inspiring females in my life who are in decades far beyond mine, still living and dreaming and having a ball,  including my wax lady who reminded me last week, “You’re still a fucking baby.”

Thank you for just being whatever you want to be, no matter the number of candles on your cake.  

Let Go/Let’s Go

It’s been seven months since I landed in this beautiful bustling city and about eleven months since I decided to ignore all of the reasons why it made more sense to stay where I was. Reasons such as dream job, nice boyfriend, Persian cat, two bedroom condo.

Eleven months ago on a beach in Mexico I decided a couple of things.

  1. I didn’t have to be, do, or have anything by any particular age.
  2. All of the limitations I believed I had holding me to the spot were only limiting if I let them be.

“I’m moving to SYDNEY,” was the result. Less than a year later the only thing I still have from that nice list of reasons is the cat, except probably not even that because I’m pretty sure my Dad isn’t going to give him back.

Last year taught me a lot about the art of letting go. I thought breakups and quitting jobs were hard, but they’re a piece of cake compared to how emotionally drained I felt breaking up with my sparkly, cozy, inner city condo.

She was perfect. What the hell was I doing selling her to some (really annoying and petty) stranger? Because it wasn’t exactly a seller’s market, someone I knew suggested I actually write out a goodbye letter to #905 as a way to begin energetically letting my home go.

Another excuse to write down my feelings?  I accept.

It reads like I’m breaking up with my first love. Here are some censored excerpts to save myself some embarrassment:

“Letting you go is not an act of boredom or dislike. I am not “over you.” You are not too old, too young, or falling apart. Letting you go is an act of dreaming again, of moving forward. I love where I am – you, my friends, my walk to the places I know and love. It’s not that I’m searching for better – how does it get any better than this!? It’s that I feel ready to go see what else I might be great at, see what else I want to do with this life that I get … It was love at first sight but I’m happy we are parting for such a great and spontaneous reason. I will always remember your light, your space, your city lights, your sunny mornings, shot gunning beers on the deck, late nights falling for x,y & z, girl talks on the couch, work done and not done at the table. You watched me grow up and chase some pretty big dreams and date some pretty big jerks. I hope you fill others up with as much light and inspiration as I have received from you … Goodbyes are hard. I could keep writing forever. (and I did – I don’t think I’ve ever written a real human being a letter that long). I could live here forever too. I will never, ever forget you….” 

Ha!

Of course it had nothing to do with a piece of property and everything to do with change.

On the other side of the courage it took to leave it all behind, I can say it’s been harder than I ever expected, and also more incredible.

Ugly crying in my driveway saying goodbye to previously mentioned boyfriend. Staring at the ocean thinking how happy I was just to get to live after hearing about a tragic death at home. Spending my lunch breaks and days off on a beach. It’s been a new kind of roller coaster. I’ve never felt so blissed out and lonely at the same time. But I’ve also never felt so loved and missed.

I usually put more emphasis on a new year. I usually write more. I usually have more to say. But this time I didn’t feel like putting the pressure on.

One particularly breezy walk home in October I remember thinking that I wanted to stop thinking and planning so much. “I want life to just throw me around a little,” I said to a friend.

Think less, feel more. Less goals and less screen time.

Eight years ago when I was in New Zealand, a family friend who I had spent a lot of time with that week said to me, “You’ve reminded me that being happy isn’t hard.” Whenever I start to feel a little sad or a little lost I think about that moment. Just like I’ll never forget 905, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sunny drive home with him and that conversation. There are certain moments that hold a lot of weight in one’s life and that was one of them for me.

My overwhelming feeling about 2017 is as simple as that. In all the courage it takes to make change, or be at change’s mercy, or let life throw you around, being happy about it doesn’t have to be hard.

Change doesn’t have to mean you don’t love where you’ve been or where you are. It’s just a chance to see what else and who else and where else you could love in this lifetime.

Personally, I have never had less of a clue about what my life could look like in a year. I don’t even know if I’ll get the cat back. But a year ago today moving to a new city was the furthest thing from my mind, and it’s been the best thing that 2016 gave me.

So. 2017. Throw me around some more and I’ll remember to be happy about it either way.

May everyone’s year be filled with more happiness and surprises than your reasons. And here’s the song that got me writing this. XO

Real Talk: Creativity

Real Talk: Creativity

I was recently thinking about the worst advice I ever listened to, which sounds like a pretty negative downward spiral to go on, but this story ends good.

What brought this on was my noticing of some serious job envy going on inside of me the last year or so. This was strange because I actually really liked my job, especially when I was making money writing, which I always thought was what I wanted. But whenever I would come across an artist, or a graphic designer, or an interior designer, or an illustrator, or a photographer, or anyone that did anything related to the visual arts, I would be all like, “I want that!!”

The shitty advice that I listened to came from my art teacher nearly ten years ago, God bless him. I know it was spoken with good intention, but I wish I had been like a typical teenager and not taken anything my superiors said seriously.

I was eighteen, and he had just given me an A+ in his highest level class. I was about to meet with a career counsellor and decide what I was going to do for post secondary. 

“Don’t go to art school Katie.”

Huh?

He elaborated and told me to enroll in something that would make it easier for me to find a job after university.

So what did I do? I majored in English Literature.

Just as useless.

But nevertheless my art teacher (and parents/friends/relatives) approved because at least if I majored in a core subject, I could surely land a job as a teacher, something my art teacher (and parents/friends/relatives) all thought I would be very good at.

I liked the idea of having summers off, but that’s about all that excited me when I envisioned my life ten years down the road standing at the front of a classroom.

I am not belittling our educators – I applaud them. It just wasn’t what was calling me.

It may have taken me a decade, but I feel myself circling back to what was tugging at my heart all those years ago. Art, creativity, paint brushes, colour, writing, texture. 

I wanted a studio, not a desk.  

It took me a decade to get really clear on something important to me. I was red wine drunk sitting on my couch in my condo for one of the last times before it sold. I was with a friend talking about my strange job restlessness when it hit me like a blinding flash of the obvious. I thought I was being really profound so I even typed up my words in my phone and quoted myself.

“I don’t want to be the one managing other people’s stuff, or critiquing other people’s work, or writing about other people’s creations. I want to be the one creating the stuff.” – Katie Tetz

I was drunk, and incredibly clear.

It’s a deceptively simple thing to want, and really easy to fall astray from.

Managing people was where the “status” and money was. I couldn’t be satisfied with being a visual merchandiser in retail; that wasn’t good enough. Writing about other people’s companies, creations, and chasing celebrity gossip – that’s where my words could pay the bills. And I couldn’t call myself a writer if I couldn’t pay my bills.

But that’s not what I truly wanted either. 

Which brings me to what spurred this rant – another Real Talk question.

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I’ve read a lot of good this-changed-my-life-books, but my newest favourite is Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. (Eat, Pray, Love lady).

This book is a creative person’s dream.

She’s (almost) totally got me convinced to let go of the external results that can once and awhile come from a person’s creativity. She makes an amazing argument that those results are not the point. I say almost because I guarantee that if I write my book and some big mean critic tells me it’s shit, I’ll be a little upset.

Of course I like it when someone tells me they like my blog, but that validation cannot be why one makes stuff. Of course it would be great to make a living through art, but reading Big Magic left me feeling like it just doesn’t matter. And because it doesn’t matter,  I won’t feel like I’m not a “real writer” until I cash a giant book advance. I won’t feel like I can’t pick up a paint brush just because I didn’t go to art school. This book reminded me that the only way we can live a happy creative life is to do it for the love.

I’m not sure exactly what all this job envy is pointing to, but when I look at my coworker’s photography, or my cousins paintings, or when I snuck upstairs to a distant relatives art studio in Germany three summers ago…something tugs at my heart. Every time. Without fail. And while my unintentional career in retail has it’s ups and downs, the one thing I continue to love is the thing that lets me play with colour and design and texture, visual merchandising.

It’s been a decade and I can’t shake it. I like being the one creating the stuff. Period.

So as much as I wish I hadn’t listened to my art teacher’s shit career advice, I know better now. And I hope I’ve lived enough to recognize that advice next time I hear it. Of course it won’t be in those exact words, but the message is always the same: That thing you want, whatever that thing is, is only worth pursuing if it’s going to make you money.

What a lie.

I like Elizabeth Gilbert’s thinking: “We still have enough space left in our civilization for the luxuries of imagination and beauty and emotion – and even total frivolousness. Pure creativity is magnificent expressly because it is the opposite of everything else in life that’s essential or inescapable. It’s a gift. It’s the frosting. Our creativity is a wild and unexpected bonus from the universe.”

I am finishing a book this year and I bought some paint brushes a few weeks ago. If I ever sell a book or have an art show, that’s cool, and it’s also okay if those things don’t happen.

But if they do, I will most definitely be sending my old art teacher an invite.

 

 

Creating Space

I’m standing still for a moment, which is good progress. – Bertlott Brecht

I was getting ready to go explore another neighborhood in Sydney but was taking my sweet ass time deciding what to wear. Half an hour behind schedule, my boyfriend and I left my apartment.

“I feel very laissez-faire in this outfit,” I said.

“Totally,” he agreed, not even sarcastically.

“I don’t even know what laissez-faire means,” I confessed.

“Me either.”

We continued to use this phrase over the length of his stay without ever bothering to find out if we knew what we were talking about. Finally, weeks later, he sent me the definition: a policy or attitude of letting things take their own course, without interfering. 

I’ve sort of taken a “laissez-faire” year for myself – some time out to sit still and ponder what’s next. I just happened to do so while also putting the entire ocean between me and my life. I gave myself space, quite literally.

In my short twenty-nine years on earth, I have learned the importance of making decisions and subsequently felt the amazing snowball effect when those decisions are in alignment with what I really want.

Enter happiness.

Letting things take their course, or standing still for a minute or two, is surprisingly a lot harder. Especially with the beast that is social media constantly reminding me of all the amazing, inspiring, world-changing things everyone else is up to. Whether it’s making change or making babies.

Sometimes it completely overwhelms me. And sometimes it really is inspiring.

Either way, it always reminds me that the world is moving very quickly and that there are millions of people out there taking action, building businesses, crushing goals, taking photos of doughnuts, getting into calligraphy, etc, etc.

I feel lazy because I still don’t know what I should be “hustling” for. It’s the way in which the word hustle has been glorified that annoys me, particularly when I see things like, “Good things happen to those who hustle.”

No. Anxiety, break-downs, and stress related illness happen to those who hustle.

I am not opposed to working hard. My teachers in school and my employers in adulthood have always gold-starred me. What I am an advocate for is self-care and presence in between all the hustling so that one doesn’t forget to enjoy one’s life as well.

I just want to sit still for a minute. Go for walks until I maybe or maybe don’t stumble upon some answers.

An actual excerpt from my diary:

“In the best way, not that much has even happened. I found a job, an apartment, and walk the coast over and over and over again with my backpack. I have a couple of new friends that I meet for pizza and wine about once a week. I like sitting in bars knowing no one I know will walk in. I’ve found a coffee shop that sort of knows my name (Kelly), and a liquor store with good wine deals. I’ve organized my inbox, finished some books, blogged, gone to bed early, eaten well, and I always have enough time. I feel like I hit pause. And in doing that I also feel like I’ve taken some giant steps forward.”

I suppose there is a time and a place for everything. And right now, evidently, is a time of not much action, which means my tarot card lady was freakishly accurate.

“You’re going into your hermit year.”

Sorry – what? I don’t hermit.

“You may not understand what’s going on with yourself, and that’s okay. You’ll find you only want to spend time with really important people, or you’d rather just be alone.”

And dammit she was right!

It’s quite startling how much I’ve enjoyed the hermit lifestyle the last four months. My coworker started referring to me as “Mom”.

Six months ago if someone called me that I would have grabbed a bottle of tequila and proved them wrong.

I know that being in action is important, but what about taking some time to stand still and bask in where life ended up, or time to be really thoughtful about what’s next, and what’s here now.

There’s lots of voices and opinions floating around, some my own and some others.

“It’s time to decide honey.”

“Don’t worry about it – you don’t have to make a decision right now.”

So laissez-faire it is. Turns out happiness can come in that door too.

Real Talk: Wolf Packs

Real Talk: Wolf Packs

“Do you think it’s more important to have a diverse group of friends or a wolf pack that you roll with for life?”

Friendship.

The older I get, the more I have to say about the topic, the more I value it, and the more I see how complicated it can be. When I was growing up, my friendships were the only constant – they were the relationships that I ran to and knew would be there like I knew the sun would rise. Everything else in life was where the fluctuation was. Boyfriends, jobs, family dynamics, life decisions. But my BFFs? Solid.

Then, I got a little older.

To answer the question, I prefer to have my cake and eat it too. I would always choose both, but what do I think is more important? I might ruffle some feathers saying this, but I have been surprised over and over again at the impact the different people who have come in and out of my life have had on me. So I’m gonna go with option A.

#diversityforthewin

I value growth. I want to become more and more awesome the older I get. Or rather, more fully myself. And how I’ve gotten closer to that has everything to do with the diverse group of friendships I’ve had along the way. Some remain and some fade away, but they were all meaningful and if I wanted to overthink on it a bunch, I could tell you that every single one of those people taught me something different.

I’m taking “diversity” to mean that you are open to, and make friends with, a wide array of people. They don’t necessarily become a wolf pack, nor do you necessarily roll with them through your entire life. On the flipside,  I’m taking “wolf pack” to mean the same friends, all together, all the time.

Luckily we live in a universe that doesn’t make us choose between one or the other. But to be honest, sometimes I’ve felt like I had to.

Sometimes I feel like a shitty friend because I can’t keep up with all of the rad people that have made their way into my heart. It’s an awesome problem to have, one that I’m sure my awkward thirteen-year-old self would be proud of. Oh you’re that popular that you feel like you have too many friends?

Cry me a river.

But that’s when friendship got a little more complicated. When there started to be more than one wolf pack, when I started to value different things, or moved, or grew, or changed, or couldn’t keep up. Friends I met at school, friends I met traveling, friends I met in the workplace, and then another workplace, and then through friends of friends, and then I even become friends with an ex’s ex.

What’s next? Brunch with my ex-boyfriends?

ENOUGH FRIENDS ALREADY.

I know what you’re going to say to me: “It should be about quality not quantity.”

Save it.

My pushback will be that unlike all of the terrible boys I dated circa 2014, I happened to find a shit ton of quality platonic relationships.

In all seriousness, I think the older we get the more clear we get on who we really connect with, and that shifts and changes too depending on what’s going on in our lives. But I think the mistake we make is labeling that shift bad. Those “friends for a season” people aren’t necessarily shitty friends. Maybe you can just love them for what they gave you in those moments of friendship, and that’s enough.

I know there’s not a single friend that I’ve drifted away from that I don’t cheer for from afar. But being okay with that is where the growing pains are.

Letting in all that “diversity” has been so worth it for me. The mentors, the party animals, the single-girl companions, the older & wiser, the young & borderline insane, the ones I had the time of my life with and the ones I cried my eyes out in front of – I wouldn’t trade all those experiences for anything. Maybe they could have happened with the same wolf pack, but they didn’t in this girls journey.

My current friend roster ranges from age 22 to 66. And that’s not including family.

The 22-year-old literally just does whatever he wants and doesn’t overthink anything. And by “does whatever he wants” I don’t mean partying with reckless abandon. I mean he’s an Instagram famous self-taught photographer, he’s started his own brand and magazine, and he even makes candles. He’s inspired me to just start whatever it is I want to start. Zero overthinking.

The 66-year-old is my absolute favorite coffee date. Nothing beats the wisdom behind her twinkling blue eyes. It’s such a unique experience, listening to someone with that many more decades of life experience than you. It’s both humbling and encouraging. I trust her like I’ve known her my entire life.

I absolutely love letting people in for this reason: I believe the universe gives you what you need when you need it; it just takes a keen eye to notice this phenomenon (and a belief in something other than coincidence).

I think that letting people – all sorts of people – make an imprint on your heart is an amazing way to spend your life.

The handful of girls that I have carefully curated as my best friends, yes they are my wolf pack or tribe or whatever you want to call them. But they are not my wolf pack by default. They are the result of me loving everybody up that’s come into my life, some long ago and some more recent. I know I’ve really chosen them, and they are most definitely diverse.

 

When it comes to friendship, sometimes keeping one another in each other’s lives is harder than letting each other go. But maybe all we need to do is cherish that carefully curated wolf pack, and send love to the friendships that have come and gone. They weren’t bad friendships; maybe they were just meant for other things.

Friends for a reason, season or lifetime, everybody is invited to my party.

Recap: Sydney

The only good reason I had to do this was that I had always wanted to.

And I think that’s a good enough reason to do just about anything.

Stopping and staring every twenty feet, knowing my camera will never do it justice but trying anyways, the coastal walk from Bronte to Bondi continues to make me stand still in awe. Usually when you see something this beautiful you’re a tourist with a camera who snaps a photo and then leaves. But this gets to be my backyard for months on end. If all I ever saw of Australia was this, I’d be happy.

It makes me feel small, alive, and free.

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Watching the surfers catch and crash into waves reminds me of an important lesson, one I hear often but rarely see in action.

Surfers can’t be afraid to fall. And they also can’t be worried about “looking good,” or being perfect every time. They paddle out there for what I imagine is just the joy of it. They fall over and over and over, or miss wave after wave. Then once and awhile they catch one and ride it out, making it look easy. I often find myself holding my breath for them as if I’m the one on the board. I could watch them all day long, thinking about how okay it is to crash and then try again.

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This wasn’t a well thought out plan. I didn’t have a big why behind moving away for a year. The only good reason I had to do this was that I had always wanted to.

And I think that’s a good enough reason to do just about anything.

“I live somewhere I can wear shorts all year round.” I had written that down a few times over the years while making a list of life goals, not knowing how or when or why. I just knew I’d love to live by the sea.

Well they lied – you cannot wear shorts all year round in Sydney. But I love it anyways. Having traveled a handful of times in my twenties, I knew that I still wanted to experience actually living somewhere new, starting from scratch, having no idea where I was headed. The how and the when seemed to figure themselves out. Being here now feels serendipitous, like I’ve landed somewhere I belong.

Australia and I just jive.

 

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Me crushing hard on the Central Coast, my first day in Australia. 

 

Not that moving to a new city doesn’t have its growing pains. I’ve also had to be quite a bitch a couple of times, and though I don’t like being that person and it definitely doesn’t come naturally, they were also proud moments of adulthood. It’s kind of comforting knowing that I can stand on my own two feet, even if most of the time I don’t have to.

Thank you to Australia’s terrible customer service and shitty work ethic for teaching me this valuable lesson!

Which is also probably why I like the place so much. The word “hustle” isn’t glorified here whatsoever. I can say with certainty that there is a better work-life balance here, with “life” being of higher priority.

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I haven’t done very much besides walk a lot of kilometers and watch the surfers, but if this trip ended tomorrow I would be filled up completely. I think all I really wanted was space and ocean breezes and to be reminded of how beautiful the world is, and also that I don’t have to take adulthood so seriously.

Crash, coast, paddle back out; you don’t have to get it right every time.