After fifteen years of living abroad, everything I’ve ever had has ended up in one wardrobe. Letters, jeans, stones, books—proof of lives I once lived. The question is: what do you keep, and what do you let go?

Nine years ago, I landed at Sydney Kingsford Smith airport with a rucksack on my back. Two years tops, I told myself. Like I always did when moving somewhere new. But I stayed. It’s been nine years, and I’ve hardly noticed.

Frustration has been killing me. I can’t write, I can’t think, and the more I try, the worse it gets. And then I realise: this is exactly what writing is supposed to teach me.