Four Years Later, We Finally Pitched It

From Bahrain to the backyard, honouring the past in the present.

This weekend I turned 48. Which feels… fine. Nothing wildly profound about it, except that it’s now been four years since we packed up our lives overseas and came back to Australia.

On my 44th birthday, we boarded a one-way flight home after sixteen years abroad. Two kids in tow. Aussie by passport, but both born in faraway places with no memory of gumtrees or magpies.

Like a lot of Australians, we’d gone overseas for a perhaps short adventure that somehow stretched into over a decade. One year became three, then five, then we blinked and we had a life. A proper one. Schools, friends, routines, jobs. A whole world in what felt like a parallel universe.

When you live abroad, you often talk about “coming home.” It’s always in the future. One day, maybe. Usually tied to aging parents, or school plans, or the idea that home is still this anchor that exists, waiting for you. But often, your home becomes the place you’re in. The idea of returning drifts further and further away.

And then one day, you do it.

For us, it was partly the pandemic, partly the pull of something new, partly that quiet sense that it was time. I was excited. I loved our life overseas, but I was ready to close that chapter and begin a new one.

Except no one really tells you how hard it can be to come home. People had warned me, but I figured I was Australian, so how hard could it be?

Turns out, harder than I thought.

I missed our old life deeply. I missed the contrast, the colour. The way I felt living in between cultures. I missed the friendships we’d built over so many years. I missed who I was there.

The expectations I’d quietly carried about coming home didn’t match reality. I thought it would feel like putting on a comfy old jumper. Instead, it felt like trying on something that no longer fit quite right.

And then, there’s this funny little side note.

On the days before we left Bahrain, I had a very emotional, very last-minute moment and panic-bought a Bedouin tent. Yep. A massive canvas tent and a whole bunch of Arabic-style floor cushions. I had this dreamy vision of recreating our old life, hosting gatherings, drinking mint tea on the floor, surrounded by music and friends. It was all very Pinterest in my head.

When we arrived back in Australia, the tent never got unpacked. Life was too full. Too strange. It got shoved into storage and forgotten about.

Until this weekend.

Four years to the day, we pulled it out. My birthday again!

We weren’t sure what we’d find. It had been through a few Queensland seasons, still rolled up from the day we packed it. No instructions. No clue what state it was in.

But we gave it a go.

With some creative teamwork, we had it standing in just over an hour. Turns out, it's a two or three-adult job. Next time we reckon we’ll get it up in half an hour. Not bad for something that had been stuffed in a storage for four years.

We laid down the cushions, pulled out some ukuleles, a mandolin and a banjo (no idea where they came from!), and suddenly it was the best afternoon. Warm winter sun. Kids playing. That kind of simple happiness that just creeps up on you.

We wished we’d brought sleeping bags. It was that good. But instead, we packed it down again, with plans to camp in it soon, before the mozzies and humidity make us regret our optimism.

Fun fact: Many of those tents you see all over the Gulf? They’re actually made in Pakistan and built to withstand snow. Which feels right, somehow. Built for something harsh, and still holding strong in a new environment.

Four years on, I’m still figuring things out. Still learning to let go of the version of home I had in my head. Still trying to make sense of where we’ve been and where we are. But definitely feeling more at home here in our Australia.

This weekend, lying under that tent with my family, I felt something shift. A little spark of nostalgia in our new life here back home. A little reminder that the story didn’t end when we came home.

We just flipped the page.

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