By Stamatina Notaras
This might shock some, confuse most, and prompt feelings of pity from a select few. For me, though, the phrase that plays on repeat in my head is: “That was so random of me.”
It’s what I said to my family when I decided to call it quits on the whole ‘Living in Greece’ thing. It’s what I said to my housemates the second I stepped back into my old living room – everything exactly as I had left it. And it’s what I’ve told all of the friends I thought I was leaving behind when I headed towards what seemed like the next chapter of my life. At this point, maybe chapter four – but, who’s counting?
If you haven’t caught on yet, forgive my ambiguity: I’ve swapped bikinis for blankets, sunbeds for sofas, and freddo espressos for steaming cups of coffee. Okay, you get it.
I’m back in Melbourne, baby!
In my life, I’ve always questioned my gut instincts. Actually – sometimes I’ve questioned them so much, I wonder if I have a gut at all. I swing between being confident and decisive, and playing a constant game of tug-of-war with myself – me versus me – and I seem to be my toughest opponent.
But not this time.
I felt it in my blood, bones, head, heart, and toes: I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
And I know I wouldn’t have figured that out unless I was in the pitts; lugging around a too-heavy-for-this-girl backpack, and a tote filled with my laptop, all the chargers I might need throughout the day, a few hopes and dreams, and a notebook to scribble them in now and then. (I’ll come back to that notebook – sometimes it’s the deciding factor between flying 15,000 kms back home or not).
On the spectrum of emotions – happiness, sadness, anger, fear – they rarely show up solo. They coexist, overlap, and reappear when you least expect them. So, just as two things can be true at once, I can’t talk about the full body reaction I felt during this time of trial without acknowledging the extraordinary moments that will stay with me for decades to come: surrendering to the quiet magic of Hydra, sitting in solitude at the top of Lycabettus, reconnecting with distant family members who now have a special place in my heart carved out just for them. And, plenty, plenty more.
But my biggest takeaway is this. As we grow, so does the version of us that shows up for others. It comes with more responsibilities, higher stakes, and the sense that we’re supposed to be in ten places at once – chameleoning to suit whoever we need to be that day. But this was the first time in a long time that I could just be.
I woke when I wanted. I compromised for no one. I ate when I was hungry. I didn’t have to be anything to anyone.
It was the most freeing experience I’ve ever had, and I’d urge anyone to seek that kind of space. It was worth all of the trials, the spirals, the five-hour ferry rides, the solo dinners, the wrong trains, the hostel nights, the head noise. All of it.
I could go on about why this trip was the most important of my life so far, but instead, I’ll share a specific moment that made me pull the trigger, book the ticket, and start my 24-hour journey back home.
It began with a ferry ride to the Greek island of Paros, a dying phone battery, and a brand-new notebook – untouched, full of possibility.
Now, I wouldn’t call myself a journaller. Actually, I wouldn’t even say I dabble. But in the middle of this inner chaos, I put pen to paper and dumped it all. You can only voice note your friends and family for so long before you realise you’re going in circles, hoping someone will say “Just come home.”
But, thankfully, I have friends and family who know they can’t make that call for me.
(Although, I did joke about wanting a conservatorship to free me of any responsibility and accountability. I kid… mostly).
So, I started jotting down whatever bubbled to the surface:.
The pros and cons of staying vs coming home. What my life would look like with no limits applied (why should there be?). What I’d learned about myself. And somewhere in those pages, it hit me.
I was clinging to a version of myself – one that wanted to island-hop with no plan, who is comfortable in chaos (even thrived, sometimes), who could roll with anything life threw at her. One who was, for lack of a better word, scrappy. And don’t get me wrong – she’s still in me. But I’m letting her rest.
I’m giving in to the metamorphosis, I’m going back to my comfort. I’m allowing myself to relish the goodness I already have and the greatness I know is coming.
So, book the flight. Change your mind. Book the flight back. Go through it. Take the lessons. Laugh at the mishaps, and know this:
This too shall pass – a phrase I whispered to myself in the harder moments.
Because, it’s not messy. You’re not lost.
You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be – especially if it doesn’t feel like it.
And look, maybe it was a big ol’ breakdown – who am I to say? I just like this version better.
