What I’d write If I weren’t afraid

Thoughts from the sky

Hey friends,

I’m writing this from somewhere above the Indian Ocean on my way back to the UK. Planes will always feel like a kind of liminal space to me; one where time both stops and speeds by as we soar through the sky at 500 miles an hour.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about all the chapters of our lives and how they fit together. Travel, for me, is one of those instances when everything collides. Stories blur into one another. Stepping out of our usual lives means it can be easier for pages to be turned, chapters rewritten, or, sometimes, when we go back to places we’ve been before, to be relived.

In the air, I feel like I’m united with every version of me who has been on planes: the 11-year-old on her first flight, the 15-year-old going to Japan on an exchange trip, the 23-year-old leaving the UK for good, the 29-year-old arriving in Australia, the 30-year-old rushing to get the last flight back in before they closed the borders, the 32-year-old on her first trip to the UK after they opened, not knowing what awaited her when she landed.

I say I hate flying, but if I’m honest, it’s the memories that I struggle with the most. Flying reminds me of how much I miss my old wandering days - the old wandering me. The one who felt free as a bird, leaving and arriving with nothing more than a backpack, a one-way ticket, and a heart full of hope and trust that it would all just work out.

And, for seven years, it did.

Nowadays, though, it’s a bit more bittersweet. There’s joy there, still - I’m looking forward to seeing my family - but a lot of grief, too, for all of us, and how much these past few years have changed us all.

It made me think about what else I put an easy label on - like how it’s easier to say I hate flying than explain all the things. But then I came across a question the other day that stopped me in my tracks:

What would I write if I weren’t afraid?

I love what I’ve been writing recently, but if I weren’t afraid, at least on some deep level, I don’t know if I’d have written it the same. It’s all true, of course, but it’s still shaped. Smoothed down into a solid through-line and a nice, neat conclusion. A pretty package, tied up with a bow and delivered to your inbox.

If I weren’t afraid, I’d tell you that the past few weeks have felt totally overwhelming. This was meant to be my calm-before-the-storm time, but instead I’ve filled it with things, saying yes to things I shouldn’t have, writing articles, and rushing around trying to find the perfect dress for an autumn wedding on Saturday.

I know it’s a coping mechanism. The busier I am, the less I have to think about the discomfort. The more stressed I get about logistics, the less I have to think about what it’s going to be like to see my mum. I still video chat with my family every weekend, but it’s not the same.

Seeing her is confronting. A whole year has gone past since the last time, and the only reason her decline has levelled out is because there isn’t anywhere else much to go. She doesn’t even respond to her name anymore. My dad has to physically move her legs to get her to move.

It’s crazy thinking that, on that first trip back in 2022, she burst into my bedroom at 6 am, saying she was bored. The year after was her last time away with the family. She didn’t know who most of us were. I’m glad she doesn’t come away with us anymore.

Ed and my mum on our first trip back, summer 2022.

We still go, though. This year we’ve found an old shepherd’s cottage close to a beach with a fire room. I’m looking forward to the fire room. And all the nearby castles. We’ll be there for just under a week with the rest of the family and my niece, and then go up to Scotland for a quick road trip before heading back down south for one last weekend at home with my mum.

It’s going to be a hectic trip, especially as someone who typically needs 48 hours of alone time to recover from a coffee date. I love my family, but it gets a bit intense being away with six adults, an 18-month-old, and a dog.

This time, though, we’re hiring a car, which should really help. The last two years, I’ve found myself reverting back to teenage mode, feeling a bit trapped and claustrophobic, and struggling between FOMO - knowing I have limited time with my family and in these new-to-me places - and stimulation and social overload.

If I weren’t afraid, I’d tell you how much these trips take it out of me. How I hate that, after seven years on the road, this is the only time I get to travel now. That, after six years together - and initially bonding over our shared love of travel - my partner and I have never been on an overseas trip that wasn’t to visit my family and go to a friend’s wedding.

I’d tell you how, instead of filling my cup, memories, regrets, and the omnipresent reminder of the guilt of living so far away can drain it. How hard it can be to relax, be in the moment, and enjoy it, when all I want to do is run away. How much I want to turn back time to the old version of me, when these trips were easy.

I also hate how, when I go back, I always seem to default into the eldest-daughter people-pleasing conditioning I’ve spent the past two decades trying to overcome. No one asks me to take on that role, but somehow, no matter what tools I’ve added to my belt, when I’m with my family, my inner programming reverts to default settings.

I struggled a lot growing up. I shared a room for most of my childhood and hated not having my own space to decompress. The pressure of trying to be a “good girl” at school and home got the better of me in my teenage years.

Back then, travel was the only thing that made me happy. I threw myself into learning languages and working multiple jobs so I could take every opportunity that arose. I fell in love with the world outside my little bubble and spent my days dreaming of all the places I wanted to go.

My relationship with my family improved significantly after I moved to the other side of the country for university at 18. I was much happier when I had my own space to breathe and be myself. I’d head down for the odd weekend, but I liked that it felt like a choice, not an obligation.

After I left the UK in 2013, I didn’t go back regularly, but I always looked forward to it. I missed hot showers and home comforts. I missed the seasons; in Cambodia, my home base for many years, there were only two: the wet season and the dry. I also felt way more solid in who I was, and my relationship with my family was better for it.

Travel was good for me.

With the absence of everything I’d known (and everyone who’d known me), I felt free to be whoever I wanted to be. I liked that version of myself, the adventurer. I felt more confident in who I was without the shadows of my past, like I hadn’t just turned the page or chapter on my story, I’d been writing a whole new book.

But then, after I arrived in Australia, everything fell apart. Between trying to build a new life for myself and trying desperately to hold onto my mum’s memories, the past and present became much more muddled.

Overseas trips - when I could finally make them - became all about spending time with my family and seeing my mum. I missed so much - my mum’s last few good years, my grandma’s passing, my sister’s wedding - that I felt like I needed to make up for it. I felt like I owed it to my partner, who had to use almost all his vacation time on the trips, to have a good time. My people-pleasing kicked back in.

It’s become harder to squeeze in time to see friends, harder to take breaks when I feel the overwhelm building up, harder to give myself limits on social activities and adventures. Harder to remind myself that pushing through doesn’t actually benefit anyone, least of all me.

Every year, I say it will be different. That I’ll do better this time.

On one level, I know this isn’t the time to be all “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” (or at least back in Australia), but instead to allow myself space to recharge. Space and time to rewrite that future story, rather than finding myself sucked back into the old one - the one I thought I’d left behind when I first left home, 17 years ago.

On the other, though, I do want to squeeze it all in. I want to see everyone. I want to see and do everything. I want to push past my limits and pretend I have a regular person’s capacity, even if it’s just for a few weeks. I want to be able to go on adventures and feel like I’m having a holiday, too.

I want to be able to spend all day with my family, making new memories, and being able to go with the flow. I want to help care for my mum and take some of the pressure off my dad. I want to want to do that.

But I also want to be able to forgive myself when I don’t want to. When I need a break. These trips are the closest thing I get to travelling, these days, and I want them to feel like they at least take that edge off, just a tiny bit, instead of making it worse.

Maybe that’s what I’d write if I weren’t so afraid. That I just want to be able to enjoy it - to turn the page, start a new chapter, and rewrite some of these old stories.

Let’s see how we go.

Catch you on the flip side.

All my love,

Cxxx

PS: Did this question spark anything in you? Hit reply or head to the comments if you want to share. I’d love to know. And, if you want to write your answers questions like this live and chat about what comes up, I’ll be hosting my next writing circle for paid subs in Nov when I’m back. Everyone is welcome - non-writers especially!

PPS: I’m most likely going to take a break from posting while I’m away, but I’m so looking forward to launching a few new things when I get back, including my first online version of my writing the stories of our lives workshops, and a sneak peek of what I’ve been working on.