I got a job today.
It’s nothing too thrilling, just a short-term position at a local university bookstore, but it’s something and I’m relieved. Perhaps I can exhale now. Perhaps I can let myself just be here, for however long that is.

The Mister and I have been tossing around some loose plans for what we hope to happen over the next two years. Nothing is etched in stone, but there will likely be a reunion with our tiny fifth floor apartment in Brooklyn as well as time spent on the west coast of the US. Topping this mental timeline off is the clearing of our dotted-around-the-world storage units and setting up a home in a city new to both of us.

Nothing is confirmed, but I find security in some sort of plan, however loose it may be.

It’s so strange to think of having a real home that isn’t Seattle, the city of my youth, or New York, the city of my adulthood. Brisbane is where we live, but it’s not our home.
Just after we arrived in Brisbane, we moved into our little apartment and the Mister caught me daydreaming. “Live in Brisbane for a year and see then what you really think about staying”.
Two months later, I see his point.
Despite the mangoes and the frangipani, the evenings sitting in the backyard grass, despite the beautiful outdoor pool where I float on my back and the sky is blue forever, despite all these things that I love, this isn’t our city. This isn’t our home.

I’ve been going though a bit of a rough spot lately. Homesick for New York and heartsick for the friends and family left behind. I have no regrets about coming here. It’s a given that I will wholeheartedly do whatever is necessary to support my husband in the persual of his career but there is no comparison to friends that have known and loved you for years or the city that has literally everything.

I don’t want to go back in time, I’m simply trying to find my way forward on a very new road. Step one: get a job.

Step two: I have no idea.