When the Fates Say “Move”, You Pack Your Bags (and Your Trauma)
Let me set the scene: two weeks ago, I said goodbye to my life in Adelaide. After more than two years of building something that felt like home, I packed everything into storage, boarded a plane with my fluffy boy Lulu, and moved back to Brisbane. Just like that. New chapter, new post code, same chaos.
Now, I won’t go into the full Greek tragedy of events that led me back here. Let’s just say the Fates had been whispering for a while, and when they started yelling, I finally listened. You know that moment when the universe gives you a little nudge, then a shove, then eventually just picks you up by the scruff like a misbehaving kitten and deposits you somewhere else? That. That was me.
What no one tells you about starting again in your 40s is that it’s a weird combination of terrifying, exhausting, and weirdly familiar. Like muscle memory for heartbreak, bubble-wrapping wine glasses, and remembering which drawer your mum keeps the foil in. I’ve done this dance more times than I can count, and yet each time, it’s brand new. This time, I’m 42. I’m a different woman. Still chaotic, still caffeinated, still stubborn as hell. But different.
The Grief of Goodbyes (Yes, Even When You Choose Them)
The hardest part of all this? Saying goodbye to him. My ex-boyfriend-turned-best-friend. The man I laughed with, cried with, shared sushi and silence and entire lives with. The man I once thought I’d marry. We both cried. Like, full on, snot-into-tissues, clutching-each-other, slow-motion-movie-scene level tears. That goodbye broke me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
We still talk every day. He’s still in my life. But it’s not the same, is it? Proximity matters. It’s the difference between a warm hug and a comforting text. Between shared playlists and shared silence. Between being in each other’s orbit and just watching from afar. And I’m trying so hard to be okay with that. To accept that for now, this is the way it has to be. But it hurts.
It wasn’t just him, though. It was Adelaide. It was the life I built. The friends I made. The routines that soothed me. The markets (well, Norwood FoodLand…), the wine bars, the little corner of the world that felt like mine. I was happy there. Not always, but mostly. And now I’m here, starting again in a city I used to know. A city that feels familiar but foreign. Like trying on a pair of jeans you wore years ago. They still fit, sort of. But they’re not quite you anymore.
Reclaiming My Inner Chaos Goblin
So now what? I’m living with my mum (god help us both), all my worldly possessions are in storage, and I’m trying to rebuild a life while sharing a bathroom and keeping Lulu from traumatising my mum’s cats (turns out he’s The Boss, and a very jealous one at that!). Glamorous, right? Not quite the Pinterest-perfect restart I imagined, but it’s real. It’s mine. And I’m rolling with it.
I start my new job on Monday, which feels wild after the whirlwind of this move. It’s weird to be the “new girl” again, especially when you’re trying to dress for Brisbane’s climate with your entire wardrobe in storage. Naturally, I had to buy a whole new one. Any excuse, right? Especially when it meant I could finally justify that new pair of shoes and the Mimco bag I’ve had my eye on for months. Priorities.
But beneath the mess, the grief, the overwhelm… there’s something else. That little spark. The one that says, “You’ve done this before. You’ll do it again. And this time, you’ll do it even better.” I’m not the same girl I was the last time I had to start over. I’ve loved harder, lost more, healed slower, and grown stronger. My chaos goblin energy is still intact, but she’s matured. Slightly. Don’t expect miracles.
Making Space for Sadness (and New Shoes)
People love to romanticise fresh starts. Clean slates. Tabula rasa, baby. But they forget that sometimes, the slate was cosy. Sometimes, the mess on it was beautiful. Starting again means mourning the version of yourself that belonged somewhere else. It means feeling unanchored, and resisting the urge to fill that space too quickly.
I’m trying to give myself room to feel it all. The sadness. The loneliness. The weird joy of eating my gluten free granola in silence while Lulu glares at me for moving him across the country. The bittersweetness of daily voice notes from someone I still love, even if we’re no longer in each other’s foreseeable futures. And the wild hope that maybe, just maybe, this fresh start will bloom into something I couldn’t have imagined before.
Also, let’s be real. I’m using this chaos as an excuse to buy new shoes. You’d be amazed at how healing a pair of heels can be when everything else feels like it’s unravelling. One day I’ll have a home again, with shelves and space and my favourite mugs. For now, I have a suitcase, a mum who loves me, and a cat who occasionally uses my face as a pillow. That’s enough.
Redefining What “Home” Means Now
Home used to be a place. A flat, a couch, a city skyline. But lately, home feels more like a process. It’s in the way I line up my skincare on a shared bathroom shelf. In the smell of the tea I drink every morning. In Lulu’s purr when he curls against me at any given moment. Home is me. And wherever I go, I take that with me.
Starting again isn’t just about logistics. It’s emotional. It’s spiritual. It’s trying to remember who you are outside of where you were. Outside of who you were with. Outside of the identity you wrapped around a city, a person, a routine. I’m peeling it all back, and underneath, she’s still here. A little tired, sure. A little more wrinkled. But still fierce. Still funny. Still full of fight.
I’ve done this before. Not just physically, but soul-deep. I’ve left jobs, homes, cities, men. I’ve walked away from comfort in search of something better, even when I didn’t know what better looked like. I’ve started again with nothing but a suitcase and a dream more times than I can count. This time, I have more than that. I have me.
Home isn’t a place. It’s how loudly your cat purrs when you stop running.
Where the Chaos Leads Us Next
To anyone else starting over at 42, or 62, or 23 for the fifth time… you’re not alone. It’s messy and scary and wildly unfair, and it might make you question everything. But you’re also brave. You’re resilient. You’re doing something most people are too scared to even consider. That makes you powerful.
Let yourself grieve the life you left behind. You’re allowed to miss it. You’re allowed to cry over the person who stayed, even if you had to go. You’re allowed to feel lost for a bit. Just don’t unpack there. Feel it, then keep going. Even if you have to do it in mismatched socks and borrowed pyjamas.
Starting again isn’t failure. It’s evolution. And if, like me, you’re currently rebuilding your life one tiny brick at a time… I’m right here with you. With my mum’s spaghetti in one hand and a new planner in the other. Ready to begin, again.
Because sometimes, again is exactly where we’re meant to be.
We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity
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