Catherine Boucher
I slept with the curtains and balcony door flung open; when the first fingers of light reached into the room, I stirred. The huge bed was all mine. I stretched luxuriously and considered how to spend the empty days that lay ahead. The sounds of a busy household in the throes of the morning routine had been replaced with birdsong and snatches of conversation from walkers passing by.
I was 43 years old when I realised I had never spent any real time on my own. It dawned on me that I was always so busy “doing” that I rarely had time for just “being”. I’d spent more than 20 years immersed in the lives of others, working as an occupational therapist, and while the work was rewarding, it was increasingly exhausting. Days were a blur of appointments, meetings and never-ending report writing.
After reading articles that championed the benefits of solitary time on personal development, I jokingly began to wonder if I was a fully formed adult or just a product of my commitments. Despite the joy I derived from helping people live their best lives, I had a long-held dream to change tack. With that dream, unfortunately, came a load of guilt and trepidation.
Finally, at 44, with long-service leave and a desire to find out who I was on my own, I kissed my husband and kids farewell and headed north from Melbourne. Others were surprised by my choice of destination (Canberra is not the top of everyone’s travel wishlist, after all) and concerned I would be lonely, but I was sure of my plan.
The last time I lived in Canberra, Malcolm Fraser was prime minister and What About Me? by Moving Pictures blared from every car stereo. It’s fair to say a lot has changed in our nation’s capital since April 1982. I have no firm memories of my early years in the city, but I have always felt a deep connection – beyond it simply being my home town – that I find difficult to explain. When an idea began to form about heading off sans family, I knew I needed to head “home”.
Large enough to fill my days, but small enough to do so without battling crowds, Canberra provided both a distraction and a space to reflect. Crisp autumn air tinged with damp earth filled my lungs as I walked and scooted alongside the lake, leaves scattering underfoot. I lost myself for hours in cafes, with tea and books for company. The tension in my shoulders began to ease and my pace slowed. I could finally hear myself think.
I wanted to tell travel tales: to get out into the world and meet people passionate about their projects and places.
CATHERINE BOUCHER
Beyond the cafes and walking trails, I indulged my love for stories in galleries and museums, poring over photography exhibitions, halls filled with statues and sketches, and archaeological wonders. Surrounded by the creativity of so many others, my dream to write began to feel like a real possibility.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve written stories in my head while doing mundane things: walking to school, washing the dishes, or spending endless hours driving for work. Somewhere along the way, the desire to share stories had become stronger. I wanted to tell travel tales: to get out into the world and meet people passionate about their projects and places. It felt important to me, and I suspected I would be filled with regret if I didn’t choose this path.
I had tried writing as a side hustle over the past few years, but it just didn’t work. The mental fatigue from my day job, combined with a busy home life, left little time to put pen to paper. If I wanted to give writing a real shot, I knew I needed to walk away from the career I had spent so long building. It was a daunting prospect.
I spent the next few days wrestling with the realities of such a big midlife change. I sought solitude, wandering through the windy hills of the National Arboretum and the stunning silence of the Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve. I wrangled the guilt of leaving clients I loved helping and of abandoning years of study. There was no ignoring the fact that building a new career would take time, and the financial implications weighed heavily. Not one to gamble, it felt like the odds were stacked against me.
Slowly, with space to reflect, I began to shift my thinking towards possibility. Fiercely independent, I realised that navigating my way around new cities and countries would be a challenge to relish. On my own for the first time ever, loneliness was not knocking at the door. If anything, I was content in my own company and looked forward to more solo adventures.
My family, too, would be perfectly capable without me; my kids are old enough for me to play a supportive role rather than needing me to steer the bus. Six months’ long-service pay would provide a financial buffer; hopefully, this would buy enough time to build a writing portfolio that would lead to more work. With the endless support and encouragement of my husband, the heavy weight of “what if” shifted to an eager, restless energy to begin.
As the sun slipped from the sky on my last evening in Canberra, I watched the reflections on the lake dissolve into twilight. The stillness of Canberra had worked its magic, and the noise of “doing” had been replaced by the clarity of “being”. Finally, I accepted that I was not running from what I had, but rather towards what I wanted.
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