PART VI: TIME PASSAGES

Reflection

A Quieter Set of Priorities

I’ve spent most of my life turning up for other people. That’s just how it worked, and for a long time it felt right. I don’t regret it. A lot of it mattered, and some of it shaped who I am.

But somewhere along the way, I noticed things had started repeating. The same patterns, the same expectations, the same effort required to keep everything more or less as it was. Not because anyone was doing the wrong thing — just because that’s how life tends to settle.

I don’t think this shift is about walking away from people or responsibilities. It feels more like acknowledging that I don’t have to be everything to everyone anymore. That it’s okay to choose where my energy goes, and to let some things sit without fixing them.

That includes relationships as much as work. Some connections naturally change when you stop over-explaining, over-giving, or carrying the balance on your own. That’s not a failure. It’s just what happens when things even out.

I’m not looking for drama or reinvention. I just want a bit more space, a bit more quiet, and fewer decisions made out of habit or guilt.

It’s not about retreating from life. It’s about living what’s left of it with a little more honesty and a little less noise.

That feels like the right pace now.

I was asked once to try and define what makes me, me. I didn’t have a quick answer then, and I’m still not sure I do now. Looking back through these reflections, what stands out isn’t a single trait or belief, but movement. Stops and starts. Restarts. Too many beginnings and endings to neatly tie together.

No doubt that shaped me, for better or worse. How much and in what ways is probably not for me to decide. People tend to become wise after the event. They’ll make their assessments later, when I’m no longer around to argue the point. That’s usually how it works. Thank you for watching.

What I can say is that this pattern of movement is probably why the idea of an expatriate life always made sense to me, even if the reality never quite fit. I don’t have the skill set for it. I’m too old for the backpacker version, and the sad old man hippie trail doesn’t hold much appeal either. That window closed, if it was ever really open.

Without realising it at the time, something else filled that space. Community life did. Particularly in far-flung places. Out on the islands, off the Northern Territory especially. More so than the bush, I think. There’s a balance there that works for me.

You’re still in Australia. You’ve still had a good life. But you’re removed enough from the rhythms and expectations of mainstream suburban living to breathe properly. That version of life never suited me. I know that now with some confidence.

Maybe that’s the unplanned network that forms if you stay open long enough. Not something you design, but something that emerges. And maybe, even when circumstances and economics push you in that direction, it’s the universe doing what it does — quietly nudging you back to where you belong.

In some places, and in some cultures, life is understood less as a series of chapters and more as a passage. There is an acceptance that the start is unknown and the end is unknown, and that most of what matters sits somewhere in between, moving along whether we notice it or not.

I sometimes wonder if the Western world lost a bit of that perspective along the way. Or maybe it was the particular decades many of us grew up in — the 70s, 80s, 90s — shaped by television, routine, and the idea that things should make sense by the end of the half hour. Sitcoms wrapped everything up neatly. Problems appeared, were misunderstood, resolved, and forgotten before the credits rolled. Tomorrow always began clean.

That way of thinking didn’t stay on the screen. It seeped into daily life. Bills arrived on schedule. Mortgages ran in straight lines. Careers had ladders. Relationships had milestones. Everything was meant to start, progress, and finish in an orderly way. Even our stories about ourselves were expected to have a clear arc.

I think that leaves a kind of background noise. Not anxiety exactly, but a low-level buzz. Something that sits in the ear or the back of the brain, always waiting for the loose ends to be tied. Always expecting the moment where things finally make sense, reset, and allow you to begin again from zero.

But life doesn’t seem to work like that. It doesn’t pause for a tidy resolution. It carries on, layered with what came before and what hasn’t arrived yet. There is no clean cut between one day and the next, one version of yourself and another. Just a gradual shifting that only becomes obvious when you look back.

I don’t know if this is a flaw of our society or just a by-product of how we were raised. But I do wonder whether decades of being socialised to expect closure and clarity has left us slightly out of step with reality. Perhaps even unhealthy in small, quiet ways.

Because we are not starting from zero each morning. We are stepping into a long line that began before us and will continue after we are gone. Once you see life that way, the need for perfect endings eases. Things don’t have to be resolved to be lived with. They just become part of the passage.

Life carries a fair bit of chaos with it. Even when most of what we deal with sits firmly in the category of first-world problems. Even in a world that feels less safe, less affordable, and less predictable than it once did, there is still a need to stay grounded.

People talk a lot about finding that grounding within yourself. Philosophy, belief systems, personal rules, habits. All of those things can help. They give shape to your thinking and somewhere solid to stand when things feel off balance. I don’t discount that. It matters.

But over time, I’ve come to think it isn’t enough on its own.

What seems to matter just as much, if not more, is a small group of people. Not a crowd. Not an audience. Just a few who sit close enough to the centre of your life to matter when things wobble. The ones who know the longer version of you, and who don’t require explanation every time you’re quiet or tired or unsure.

There’s something about those small, shared circles that creates a kind of mutual centring. You agree, often without saying it out loud, to be part of each other’s support system. Not in a dramatic way. Just by being available, present, and known. It’s a quiet exchange, but it carries weight.

Without that, life can feel thinner. You can still function. You can still be capable, independent, even content in your own way. Solitude has its place, and resilience can be built alone to a point. But something is missing.

I’ve noticed it most at the end of the day. Without that extra layer that other people provide, you don’t quite settle in the same way. You go to bed fine, but not fully calm. There’s a low hum still running, a sense that something hasn’t quite landed.

Maybe that’s what those concentric circles of life are really for. Not to complicate things, but to steady them. To remind us that resilience isn’t just an individual skill, but something shared. And without that sharing, even a well-lived life feels a little less anchored.