Field Notes from the Edge
✦ Journal Entry — Shoalhaven River, South Coast NSW
Written one week into a solo road trip through places that once felt like home. I didn’t know what I’d find. What I discovered was part grief, part clarity — and part unexpected freedom. This one carries both ache and awakening.
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I’m sitting on the banks of the Shoalhaven River.
One week into my two-week solo journey along the South Coast of New South Wales.
When I started this trip, I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with being alone for this long. I didn’t know what memories would surface, or whether I’d feel like a failure returning to my old stomping grounds. I didn’t expect the emotional terrain to be so jagged. Or so revealing.
The lows? They came from where I didn’t expect.
Time with my parents felt draining. Their growing negativity, their outdated views — especially around work, mental health, and what they think I should be doing — it hit me harder than I anticipated. Dad went on about how people just need to “get on with it” and return to work when they’re struggling mentally. As if that ever worked.
Then there was the moment Eva told me, almost guiltily, that they’d booked a trip to Germany and wouldn’t be here for my 50th birthday. No photos of me in their home. Plenty of my sister and her kids. It’s not even the absence of acknowledgment that hurts the most — it’s knowing they discussed it, made the choice, and never thought to ask how that might land.
Being back in familiar places didn’t help.
The house I grew up in — run down, unrecognisable.
The family friends’ house where I played tennis as a kid — abandoned, broken.
Even the memories seemed tired.
So yeah, the past wasn’t waiting for me. It had moved on. Or maybe it had always been like this, and I’m only seeing it clearly now.
But then… there were the highs.
Walking Loki and Lucy along the beaches of Jervis Bay.
Swimming in crystal-clear water.
Fish and chips in a little harbour while dolphins cruised past.
Dinner with kangaroos hopping nearby.
Arguing with a kookaburra who refused to laugh at my joke.
Taking spontaneous detours, following instinct instead of itinerary.
I felt something return to me — confidence, freedom, presence.
A trickle of joy where there had only been weight.
It reminded me of the camping trip I took while working on Lizard Island.
Unencumbered. Clear.
It’s the last time I remember feeling that kind of lightness.
Even in the early days with Karina, camping always came with stress. Chronic illness doesn’t take holidays. Even joy came with conditions.
But here — now — I could finally just be.
No roles. No managing. No hypervigilance.
Just the road, the dogs, the ocean, and me.
The question I asked myself before this trip was:
Is this me? Is this something I want to build into my life going forward?
The answer is yes.
Absolutely yes.
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✦ Reflection
This wasn’t a holiday. It was a reckoning. The past didn’t offer comfort — but the present did. The river didn’t give me answers, but it held space for me to find them. I’m not running from pain anymore — I’m learning to make peace with the parts of life that didn’t turn out the way I hoped. And that peace — even in moments — is enough to build on
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