A World Away: Returning from a Year in Australia

It’s been nearly two months since my return flight touched down, the final chapter in what was a year-long journey across the vast and vibrant landscape of Australia. I should feel settled by now. That’s what they say, right? Give it a few weeks, let the dust of jet lag settle, unpack your bags, fall back into routine. But I don’t feel settled. Not really. Instead, it all feels strangely distant—like a vivid, impossible dream I had in some other life. A life that, in many ways, still feels more real than the one I’ve returned to.

Australia, in all its wild beauty and radiant unpredictability, feels like a mirage I walked through. I can still taste the salt in the air at Bondi, still hear the laughing kookaburras echoing through the Blue Mountains. I can still see the endless Outback burning red under the hot 50 degree sun, and feel the soft, almost reverent hush of the Daintree Rainforest around me. I remember the conversations with strangers who became friends, the shared stories in hostels, on boats, and camping under the stars. I still feel the quiet companionship of starlit skies that want to tell me their stories.

And yet, back here—wherever “here” truly is—those memories play out like scenes from a movie I once loved but can’t quite quote anymore.

The Illusion of Homecoming

When I first boarded my flight to Perth over a year ago, I carried a head full of expectations, a heart full of curiosity, and a suitcase bursting at the seams. I left behind my job, my family and friends, and my predictably patterned days. What I gained in exchange was a kaleidoscope of experiences that challenged, shaped, and, at times, completely unraveled me. Australia didn’t just offer adventure—it held up a mirror to parts of myself I hadn’t seen before.

Coming back, I half expected the world I left to have shifted in some parallel way. But no. The streets are the same. The cafés still serve the same coffee. Friends still complain about the weather, work, and weekend plans. Nothing—and everything—has changed.

There’s a strange dissonance in returning. You step back into a life that paused in your absence, while you yourself have fast-forwarded. The routine that once felt like home now feels foreign. You’re not who you were, but no one seems to notice.

The Dreamlike Quality of Experience

Sometimes I wonder if I imagined it all. That road trip across the Nullarbor, driving along the Great Ocean Road, the dive into Ningaloo Reef, the days spent diving on the Great Barrier Reef, swimming with whalesharks, dolphins, seals, turtles, and all the other amazing sea creatures, the countless sunsets viewed from beaches whose names I can no longer recall. Each experience, at the time, felt etched into my being. And now? They flutter at the edge of memory, fragile and elusive.

I scroll through photos and journals, reread old journal entries, relive voice notes I recorded under the stars. They anchor me briefly, like driftwood on a vast emotional sea. But the sensation passes, and I’m back in this version of my life, one that fits me less snugly than it once did.

Once You Start Traveling, You Leave One Home for Another

There’s truth to the idea that travel creates a fracture in your understanding of home. The concept of home is simply defined as a location, a familiarity, a comfort zone. But 4 years living in the USA and now a year in Australia, especially solo, reshapes that concept. Home becomes less about geography and more about feeling—a sense of belonging not to a place, but to a way of being.

In Australia, home was was a hostel with new friends every few days, a trip with complete strangers that after one day felt like family, the colleagues at work that put a smile on my face. It was a shared bottle of wine with travelers in a remote hostel. It was the feeling of going everywhere bare feet, the feeling of pristine white beach sand between your toes, or the comforting buzz of city lights in places where I knew no one. I felt more connected to the world at large than I ever did to one fixed location.

The freedom, the constant motion, the unpredictability—they all gave me a sense of identity I hadn’t realized I was missing. It was less about escape, more about expansion.

Reverse Culture Shock Is Real

They warn you about reverse culture shock, but it still sneaks up on you. It’s in the small things: supermarket aisles that feel overwhelming, the pressure to be reachable at all times, the insidious return of old routines and roles. You find yourself missing the simplicity of hostel breakfasts and dinners, the camaraderie of the travel community, the lack of obligation, the lack of reception when on a remote island like K'gari. The connection in Australia wasn't an online connection, it was a connection with nature, the people, and with life.

There’s a loneliness in being back, one that’s hard to articulate. It’s not about missing the beaches or the landmarks—it’s about missing who you were when you were there. The version of yourself that was braver, more open, more alive.

And that’s perhaps the hardest part—coming back and realizing the version of you that emerged on the road doesn’t quite fit into the puzzle you left behind. There are versions of ourselves tied to places: the bold, carefree soul you were in the ocean, the deeply reflective thinker in the spiritual and energetic outback, the spontaneous dancer at a coastal bonfire. These versions still live within you, but they feel out of sync with the familiar expectations of home. You’ve grown in directions invisible to the people around you, and trying to fit back into your old life can feel like trying to squeeze sunlight into a box.

The People You Meet Along the Way

Some of the most profound connections I’ve made were fleeting. Travel has a way of compressing time—you spend three days with someone and it feels like you’ve known them for years. There were long bus rides filled with laughter, deep midnight conversations under the stars, and those silent moments where no words were needed.

I think of the all the British travellers I got to know over drinks in a random bar, the American backpacker who I spend all night with talking about life, the kind people who took me in to get settled into the culture and work, all the laughter traveling across the Nullarbor, to Exmouth, Esperance, and Uluru, with the most amazing groups of people. These were people from wildly different backgrounds, united by the shared love of curiosity, travel, and life.

Back home, those connections fade. People ask how your trip was, and there’s no real way to answer. “Amazing” doesn’t cover it. “Life-changing” sounds cliché. So you say it was great and change the subject.

A Life Measured in Moments, Not Months

One of the greatest lessons I learned was to measure life in moments, not time. Back in the routine, it’s easy to let days blur together. But on the road, every day demands attention. Whether it’s navigating a new city or finding your way through a forest , you are constantly engaged, alive, and present in that moment.

There were countless such moments: watching the sunrise and sunset over Uluru, kayaking through the Noosa Everglades, dancing with strangers at a music festival in Perth, or simply sitting alone on a dock or beach in silence. Each moment stitched itself into the fabric of my story.

And while the calendar might say I’ve been back for almost two months, in some ways, I still exist in those memories. Part of me never left.

Living Between Worlds

Travel changes you in quiet, irreversible ways. It teaches you patience, adaptability, empathy. It humbles you. And once you’ve tasted that kind of freedom, it’s hard to settle back into the confines of a single life path.

Now, I live between two worlds. One foot in the comfort of home and stability, the other in the pull of the unknown. I’m restless in a way that’s hard to soothe. I find myself dreaming of new destinations, not out of dissatisfaction, but out of longing for that feeling of being untethered.

What Now?

The question that lingers is: what now? I came back expecting answers, or at least clarity. Instead, I’ve found more questions. I don’t know where I’ll go next, or when. But I know this: travel isn’t just something I did. It’s something I became.

Australia gave me more than memories. It gave me a new lens through which to see the world—and myself. And while the details may fade, the essence remains. I’m no longer just a citizen of a country. I’m a citizen of everywhere I’ve been, of everyone I’ve met, of every mile I’ve walked, a citizen of the world.

And though I may be "home", I carry that world with me.

Always.