Friends ask how the start of my 2024 has been and I mostly reply with one word: bumpy. The precariousness of Sydney’s rental market, combined with its competitiveness means that I’m faced with potential homelessness days out from my 30th birthday. This is not where I thought I’d be. This is not how I thought things would look like.
A friend jokes that I’m Charlotte Lucas in Pride & Prejudice, lamenting that I’ve got no prospects, that I’m a burden to my family. I know that I’m not, but it feels helpful to be reminded of the echoes of my feelings in others. I keep reminding myself that things will all work out in their own good time. I have to keep some slither of faith. But another part of me wonders why everything feels so hard at the moment: rejection on top of rejection so that everything feels like a compounding, Sisyphean slog.
As an antidote, I swim every day for the first week of January. They say saltwater cures all and, while I’m not sure about all, it soothes me again and again when I need it the most.
But then things get busy and life gets in the way and I move further inland and the frequency of swims ebbs away. So, at the end of a weekend of moving into a room that will do, I make a point of driving to the beach and going for a swim. If only to remind myself that I still have the freedom of a car. To remind myself that the ocean is still within driving distance, albeit a longer drive. It’s still there for me when I need it – that saltwater cure.
A friend arrives from Melbourne for my birthday celebrations. We head for the beach on a Friday afternoon before returning to eat dinner on the roof terrace and curl up on the sofa together. The ease of it. The comfort. The pure joy.
She reminds me how much I’m not alone. Not alone in the anxiety of finding a home. Nor in the frustration that comes with dating. There are others going through the same things and feeling the same way, not just Charlotte Lucas. There are always people I can turn to for gentle words or a shoulder to cry on. I mustn't forget it, even when it all feels too hard, too overwhelming, too all-encompassing.
I arrive home from my birthday dinner and realise it’s also the last night in my beloved Paddington home, so we crack open some drinks to celebrate and then I’m in my attic room tossing and turning and trying to fall asleep when I bolt upright with the realisation that it also means it’s my last night beneath this attic window and waking up to these sunrises and how did all that time between moving in and now moving out pass by so quickly?
So many of my recent conversations have been about loathing moving. The logistics and problem-solving of it all. The expense of it all. The emotional drain of it all.
An old housemate used to remark that the search for a rented room was truly bizarre. Meeting a stranger for ten or so minutes and then deciding if they want to move in with you and share some of your most intimate moments – first thing in the morning when you’re still sleep-groggy and barely awake, last thing at night when you’re exhausted and drained, and during rough patches when your emotions are heightened and you’re at the end of your tether.
Housemates have seen me through traumatic break-ups and ginormous life moments and career shifts and family crises and the daily indecision and torment and emotions of normal life. They’ve fed me as I’ve cried inconsolably on the sofa. They’ve delivered harsh truths when I’ve needed to hear them. They’ve been the reason I’ve called flats and houses what they truly are – home.
I head back to my first night in my new place and realise why it feels so strange. I’ve never moved somewhere new and had a car before. I’ve never had to get to know the lie of the car parking land for somewhere new before.
It’s then that I begin to realise just how big a role my last home has played, how much growth and change has happened in the last year and a bit.
I drive from a relative’s house to my childhood neighbourhood, through winding streets surrounded by national parks and bushland, and can’t help but think of how lucky I am to have grown up there. It feels special to be driving through this landscape, with craggy rocks jutting out and gums with grey and red trunks topped with fragrant green, towering above.
By contrast, Sydney’s inner west is filled with crepe myrtle blooms in various shades of cream and lilac and a soft baby pink and a darker, richer magenta. They fall and rest on the roof of cars and on windows, nestling into the windscreen wipers until morning. A beauty all of its own.
One hot Sunday afternoon, I head to a friend’s parent’s place to celebrate her birthday. We walk through the family home with its photos of children and grandchildren at various stages of life and head out the back. The garden is full – of friends, of family, of fruit trees and olive trees and a veggie patch. Of love.
I catch up with people I know but haven’t seen for years, and others I’ve met only in passing. I bump into someone I learnt sign language with last year, not realising all this time that we had a beloved mutual friend. I meet new people I’ve heard talked about for years. Friend’s kids run around and weave in between people and the whole party has such a relaxed, warm, loved-up vibe that I feel nourished by it for the whole of the next week.
We wake and the air is still thick with yesterday’s heat. Today will be even hotter, tomorrow hotter still; the heatwave sitting heavy over Sydney at the tail-end of January.
A friend and I pledge to meet at the beach one morning, then the next. It’s busy, then busier, as everyone seeks the cool of the salt water and the ocean breezes. Sweet relief after nights of restless, broken sleep beneath thin sheets.
The sunrise on the second morning sparkles with gold and silver light shimmering through long clouds, low over the horizon. I pause for a moment before walking along the coastal path, down the steps, and on into the water.
One evening, I help a stranger carry a fridge up three flights of narrow, winding, tiled stairs to her top-floor apartment and we talk over the top of it about our recent respective moves. We both exclaim how uncomfortable it is to be calling in lots of favours from friends and family friends, even when they respond with ‘of course’ or ‘no need to thank me’ or ask ‘is that all there is?’.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the shared nature of life. Of how someone I knew in London used to talk about how alone we all ultimately are and how we need to be self-reliant. Of how wrong they were.
My family would be the first to say that I’ve always been fiercely independent. Maybe something to do with being the youngest child on both sides. Of wanting to be more grown up, like those around me. Maybe it just is; maybe I just am.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about how self-reliance isn’t always a good thing. It can give us freedom, but the tapestry of life is far richer when others' stories and experiences, and our shared moments together, are woven through our own.
Of how the people we share our homes with can impact our days – hopefully for the better. Of how the colleagues we spend our waking hours with change our mood. Of how our friends give us different perspectives and better ways of looking at things and gentle nudges to take the next steps.
Being surrounded by so many people so dear to me at my 30th party made me feel buoyed in the middle of this bumpy patch. I’m surrounded by love. I give love and I receive love and I share love. I love cooking for loved ones and dancing with them too.
There was a moment when I was sashaying with bare feet across my lounge room floor, my friends dancing together and chatting in pairs and groups. I paused and looked around and soaked it all in.
If this is what my life looks like – in this moment, in this time, in this place – well, then, I’m very lucky indeed.
Gorgeous. Especially love the bits about the sea, about the Sydney landscapes, about connection and home. Happy birthday. Hope the year ahead is wonderful. ❤️🎈
This is really beautifully written, Emma. I hope you've landed where you need to be x