MUSIC ART FASHION CULTURE
Loosening
the Grip
the Grip
It feels like learning to ride a bike for the first time.
We were at All Nations Park. My mum and I.
It was a warm(ish) day. The sun ever so slightly kissed the grass that wrapped around the central mound of rocks perched in the middle of the park. The winding concrete paths traced the surrounding greenery like a circular grid.
It was optimal weather for learning to ride a bike. Mum must have known what she was doing.
She always does.
I spent what felt like an eternity tentatively pedalling up and down the stained concrete path, mum lightly gripping my peeling white and purple handlebars as I trailed beside her - the delicate shards of plastic slowly eroding from years spent lying neglected in the shadows of my family garage.
This was the warm up.
On the precipice of a meltdown and with a searing scowl smeared across my face, mum began to hold the back of my bike instead.
I couldn’t see her, but I could feel her presence behind me. She was still there, holding on just in case I lost my balance.
I started to ride a bit faster, my stomach muscles contracting to stay balanced on the unfamiliarity of two wheels. Mum’s calming voice ‘just keep going’ crept up the back of my neck, ringing in my ears.
But eventually, her voice became strained. It started to sound more like a shrill shout than a gentle voice of encouragement.
Out of reflex, I shot my head behind me, and there she was, standing back on the hill we had started on. I had just ridden all the way down without her holding on.
As I wearily whipped my head back towards the stained concrete path, the realisation that I was riding on my own set in.
My stomach dropped. The corner of my mouth twitched into a grin.
Suddenly, I was aware of the cooling breeze caressing my face as I continued to ride down the hill on my own, with no one but myself holding the handlebars.
This went on for approximately three seconds, until I crashed.
But how I felt in those three seconds is the best way I could describe how I feel right now.
Free yet scared, but grounded by the faith other people have in me to succeed.
I don’t think this is really about being away from my mum.
It’s about what happens when I take away everything that makes me feel loved and safe.
It’s about what's left when it’s just me, flying down the hill – or rather – strolling down the cobbled streets of Milan.
Today marks two months since I hugged my family goodbye through tear-stained eyes and wheeled my prune-clad suitcase down the reflective floors of Tullamarine airport.
I’ve made some beautiful new friends. I’ve (sort of) found a new routine. I can now do things like get home from the grocery store without having to glance down at google maps, and communicate with the post man through broken italian.
But most importantly, I’m beginning to master the choreography of doing things alone.
Amongst un-airconditioned lectures, weekly aperitivo platters, and spontaneously catching budget airline flights, the silent moments no one but myself gets to bear witness to – moments I would usually savour back at home have become deafening.
It finds me when I’m washing the dishes.
Floating in the middle of the crystal clear Ligurian sea.
Spitting toothpaste into a blocked sink under fluorescent bathroom lights.
Staring back at a failed Italian test.
Tapping my card on an eftpos machine as I pay for my seventh aperol that night.
Or weighing bananas in the supermarket.
Homesick.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion of constantly facing new things. The longing for a sliver of familiarity amongst a sea of novelty.
But in the dictionary of moving abroad in your twenties, I’m learning that routine and familiarity can also translate to an obsession with control.
I consistently find myself having to think twice as hard about everything I do because I’m either doing it for the first time or doing it in a foreign language.
This is where familiarity becomes a rare commodity.
It’s addictive. I look for it everywhere I go.
But I’m beginning to learn that (shocker), not everything needs controlling.
Not everything that’s good for you will feel productive.
And not everything that’s healthy for you can be packaged up and quantified into numbers or reasons or logical explanations.
In other words: the “success” of my time spent overseas can’t really be measured.
But, I’m slowly learning to loosen my grip on the peeling white and purple handlebars.
To stop staring down at the pedals and look around me as I ride.
I might find a new, more exciting path to ride down.
I might realise I can actually make that jump, or dodge that pile of rocks.
Or maybe, I’ll just learn to enjoy the view.
We were at All Nations Park. My mum and I.
It was a warm(ish) day. The sun ever so slightly kissed the grass that wrapped around the central mound of rocks perched in the middle of the park. The winding concrete paths traced the surrounding greenery like a circular grid.
It was optimal weather for learning to ride a bike. Mum must have known what she was doing.
She always does.
I spent what felt like an eternity tentatively pedalling up and down the stained concrete path, mum lightly gripping my peeling white and purple handlebars as I trailed beside her - the delicate shards of plastic slowly eroding from years spent lying neglected in the shadows of my family garage.
This was the warm up.
On the precipice of a meltdown and with a searing scowl smeared across my face, mum began to hold the back of my bike instead.
I couldn’t see her, but I could feel her presence behind me. She was still there, holding on just in case I lost my balance.
I started to ride a bit faster, my stomach muscles contracting to stay balanced on the unfamiliarity of two wheels. Mum’s calming voice ‘just keep going’ crept up the back of my neck, ringing in my ears.
But eventually, her voice became strained. It started to sound more like a shrill shout than a gentle voice of encouragement.
Out of reflex, I shot my head behind me, and there she was, standing back on the hill we had started on. I had just ridden all the way down without her holding on.
As I wearily whipped my head back towards the stained concrete path, the realisation that I was riding on my own set in.
My stomach dropped. The corner of my mouth twitched into a grin.
Suddenly, I was aware of the cooling breeze caressing my face as I continued to ride down the hill on my own, with no one but myself holding the handlebars.
This went on for approximately three seconds, until I crashed.
But how I felt in those three seconds is the best way I could describe how I feel right now.
Free yet scared, but grounded by the faith other people have in me to succeed.
I don’t think this is really about being away from my mum.
It’s about what happens when I take away everything that makes me feel loved and safe.
It’s about what's left when it’s just me, flying down the hill – or rather – strolling down the cobbled streets of Milan.
Today marks two months since I hugged my family goodbye through tear-stained eyes and wheeled my prune-clad suitcase down the reflective floors of Tullamarine airport.
I’ve made some beautiful new friends. I’ve (sort of) found a new routine. I can now do things like get home from the grocery store without having to glance down at google maps, and communicate with the post man through broken italian.
But most importantly, I’m beginning to master the choreography of doing things alone.
Amongst un-airconditioned lectures, weekly aperitivo platters, and spontaneously catching budget airline flights, the silent moments no one but myself gets to bear witness to – moments I would usually savour back at home have become deafening.
It finds me when I’m washing the dishes.
Floating in the middle of the crystal clear Ligurian sea.
Spitting toothpaste into a blocked sink under fluorescent bathroom lights.
Staring back at a failed Italian test.
Tapping my card on an eftpos machine as I pay for my seventh aperol that night.
Or weighing bananas in the supermarket.
Homesick.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion of constantly facing new things. The longing for a sliver of familiarity amongst a sea of novelty.
But in the dictionary of moving abroad in your twenties, I’m learning that routine and familiarity can also translate to an obsession with control.
I consistently find myself having to think twice as hard about everything I do because I’m either doing it for the first time or doing it in a foreign language.
This is where familiarity becomes a rare commodity.
It’s addictive. I look for it everywhere I go.
But I’m beginning to learn that (shocker), not everything needs controlling.
Not everything that’s good for you will feel productive.
And not everything that’s healthy for you can be packaged up and quantified into numbers or reasons or logical explanations.
In other words: the “success” of my time spent overseas can’t really be measured.
But, I’m slowly learning to loosen my grip on the peeling white and purple handlebars.
To stop staring down at the pedals and look around me as I ride.
I might find a new, more exciting path to ride down.
I might realise I can actually make that jump, or dodge that pile of rocks.
Or maybe, I’ll just learn to enjoy the view.