If someone had told me that I would be 30 something without any kids, not even close to a husband and still renting with housemates, I would have laughed and laughed, and then probably cried a great deal.
To say I’m not where I thought I would be by this age is an understatement. My mum had a house, a husband and two kids by the time she was 29. I just assumed that I would follow suit. I’m from the suburbs after all, it’s what we do.
Yet, all things considered – pandemic aside – my life is pretty awesome. I escaped the hometown bubble and now live overseas in one of the world’s best cities. I (used to) travel at least every month for a holiday, and I have the freedom and lack of responsibilities to do anything I want to do, whenever I want to do it. Like eat cake for dinner. No one’s around to tell me no. (Dear God, please someone, anyone, tell me no.)
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But most importantly, I have my girl gang. My pit crew, my support team, my single ladies. They’re the expat orphans who’ve become my family, and the ones I couldn’t live this wild life without.
Then COVID hit, and suddenly all my travel plans were off, all events were cancelled, and all my friends returned to their families all over the world – me included.
Despite the circumstances, I was excited to return to Australia and rekindle with old girlfriends. There were school mates I’d bonded with so long ago over writing lines in detention, and the uni girls who got me through my degree after too many Bacardis on the dancefloor the night before.
I had only been back once in four years but knew we would catch up like no time had passed. We may each have gone on to have very different lives – and widely vast roles – but I never imagined that that would have any impact on our friendships.
As soon as my mandatory two-week quarantine up, my best friend was on my doorstop. For the next few weeks, we spent days at the beach playing with her kids, and nights in the backyard making TikToks with her sons.