This whole *packing up my life and moving to Australia* thing has been WAY easier than I expected it to be. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for an emotionally trying few weeks before departure, and so far I’ve been fine. Like, alarmingly fine.
Giving work my departure notice was only minimally stress-inducing (it gets easier after you’ve done it 3 times). I’ve plowed through my carefully prescribed to-do lists ahead of schedule: I’ve sold or gotten rid of most everything I no longer need, made arrangements for my first 6 weeks abroad, and eliminated all bills to my name except for student loan payments and insurance. I’ve seamlessly moved out of the Brooklyn apartment I’ve called home for exactly 5 years with nary a tear shed.
I’m totally fine.
I was hesitant to commit to most anything these past few years because I knew that big commitments would be heavy anchors when it finally came time to break free and sail away. I didn’t want to have a compelling reason to stay in NYC and throw away The Dream. So I have no anchors.
That’s why I’m fine.
I’ve had a handful of moments – micro-moments, really – where I’ve thought about how infinitely easier it would be if I just stayed put. But combing through all of the stuff I’ve accumulated during my New York years and beyond has helped to reassure me. I’ve uncovered ticket stubs from trains, planes, and museums; notes and birthday cards from friends around the world; notebooks containing all sorts of travel lists and website sketches. It’s like I’ve stumbled upon a sampling of my unconscious mind: evidence of a soul that highly values travel; that LIVES to travel.
That’s how I know I’m meant to do this.