Almost three years ago to the day, I wrote about my despondency at being in Melbourne, Australia, and feeling disconnected from life. The first time I touched down here, I realized I’d spent my life homesick for a place I’d never been. Melbourne is the place I feel most like myself, or at least I did. In the fullest grip of my depression, Melbourne ceased to be my center. That awareness crushed me.
When I arrived in town last week, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was apprehensive. What if, after all the hours of therapy, self-work, and recovery, my sense of place and belonging was gone forever? Turns out, I needn’t have worried.
As a wise friend suggested on that last, pre-Covid visit, it wasn’t the physical place that made the difference. Rather than being a geographic location, my center moved within me. That internal work has become my anchor and I no longer require the external to find peace. I belong to myself.
Melbourne, I’ve come to understand, wasn’t where I needed to be to feel happy and whole. This place wouldn’t fix me, because I was never broken. Instead, it is something I carry with me. It is all that I can’t leave behind.
Seriously, Jerk Brain? 