My friend sat across from me in the crowded pub as we took in each other’s slightly older faces. It had been about eight years since we had last seen each other.
We’d both moved back to Sydney at the start of the year and it was only now, at the end of August, that we were finally catching up.
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long,” we both blurted out almost immediately, embarrassed that we’d let two thirds of a year pass by since our initial text messages and promises of a catch up.
We really didn’t need to apologise, though. Like me, my friend had changed her whole life this year. We had both made the decision to completely shake up things up and we needed at least six months to truly settle in to our new city, our new jobs, our new apartments, and our new lives – before we could even think about catching up for a sneaky wine.
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It’s the six month rule and it’s something I’m glad a few trusted people in my life warned me about when I first made the move.
At the start of the year, at age 33, I left behind my comfortable – and somewhat boring – life in the country and moved back to Sydney, a city I’d always had a love/hate relationship with. I loved the concept of living in Sydney and hated the reality.
I knew the transition wasn’t going to be easy but I wasn’t prepared for the absolute sh*t fight that was the next few months of my life.
It was hard. Really, bloody hard. There were days when I thought I’d made a massive mistake and that I’d have to return to my regional city and admit to everyone that I just couldn’t hack it. There were other times when I was just so pissed off at myself for not making the move earlier, I thought I’d left my run so late and I’d never catch up to my peers. I was constantly tossing back and forth between fear and guilt, guilt and fear.