I was itching to leave the town I grew up in. I had a loving family, great friends, a beach within walking distance, and yet I was desperate to know how it felt to be on my own. I think I wanted life to start: To pull away my safety net and see if I could tightrope my way through life’s unsteadying moments.
The thought of a new start propelled me through those languid summer holidays after high school. I imagined myself, freshly independent, doing grown-up university things like drinking wine and talking philosophy with professors. So I was totally blindsided by the fear I felt the moment my parents says goodbye to me in the Bathurst residential carpark.
The guy in question turned out to be a great buddy of mine. By third year, he would wander over to the house I shared with my three besties, and we’d nurse instant coffees, swapping uni bar stories from the night before. I think back to first term of first year of university as the wildest, happiest few months of my life. Tackling imposter syndrome in the lecture hall by day then learning to let go of my inhibitions at the uni bar at night. Forming tight friendships. Road trips to each other’s family houses. Group work that turned into dinner, drinks and dress-ups. Late night Maccas drive-through and the juiciest gossip you’ve ever heard.
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