One of the hardest parts of my first backpacking adventure was coping with my return home.
I had lived in Australia for nearly a year and travelled some of the most wondrous places on earth. I had a vast collection of experiences, stories, adventures and memories… but now I was heading back to the small village in England I grew up in.
I was heading back to my family home, to my mum and dad’s. I had no job, no car, a little debt and very limited accessible money. Even the most positive people would have trouble with that wouldn’t they?
I had a little trouble adjusting at first, I remember waking in the middle of the quiet night and feeling very unsure of what the future held. It was made worse when a trip to see the girl I was dating whilst traveling was hit by the reality that it had not lasted. I needed some clarity and reassurance, which in my life I was lucky enough to have a source of mum, dad and sister for. Although there was some tough love, there was also a car to borrow, a warm house to call home, a friendly ear to tell my stories too and the reassurance that even when feeling low and unsure, it was all ok.
I soon adapted, starting with getting work and then integrating myself back into a routine. I soon realised that I had a barrage of new friends dotted around the UK and started to visit them. It dawned on me that I was now part of a bigger community, a community that shared and understood my stories and my feelings. This realisation kept the majority of my weekends and evenings busy, I soon integrated back into reality.
However, my wanderlust never ceased and soon became too overbearing again… I started to plan and save for my next year abroad.