Linger Broke Me Open
I didn’t plan this trip back to Western Australia.
When a close lifelong friend’s dad passed away, I booked a last minute flight back to Perth. His celebration of life was exactly what he had wanted. Family and friends together, sharing stories, laughter and memories. I was honoured to be part of it.
Over the years he became like another dad to me since my first year of high school. Whenever I returned to Perth, seeing him and his family was part of coming home. They still are and feel like my other family.
I went back to celebrate his life and catch up with lifelong friends. I didn’t realise the trip would change something in me too, as Perth has always been my other home in my heart. People often ask me why, when I lived in South Africa and now England. I’ve never really been able to explain that feeling.
Maybe it’s because I grew up and went to school and made friends who still stay in touch.
Maybe it’s because our family was happy living there.
Maybe it’s the friendly and openness of Aussies in general and the people.
Maybe it’s the unique slang, banter, jokes and accents.
Maybe it’s the beaches and Swan River where I learnt how to surf life save, snorkel, windsurf and sail.
Maybe it’s the owners and neighbours at my Air BnB who felt like friends; as they were so welcoming, having chats and inviting me in for drinks.
Maybe it’s the spontaneity and ease to meet up with friends without having to book an appointment (unlike England).
Whatever it is, the moment I arrive, something inside me settles. I feel calmer, lighter and completely me. The energy is different to England and South Africa. As an empath I pick up on energies of a place or a person very quickly.
This trip became much more than revisiting favourite places. It was about reconnecting with lifelong friends from school, uni and friends I’d later met through sailing in South Africa who had since made Perth their home too. It was about making new memories while looking at familiar faces and places with fresh eyes.
As usual on holiday, I had my camera with me.
I watched and photographed koalas and joeys, quokkas, kangaroos with their joeys too, surfers, cockies, towering karri trees, random moments, country towns down south, endless beaches and those incredible shades of blue that Western Australia does so effortlessly.
But down south, in Yallingup and the Margaret River region, there were long stretches where I barely picked up my camera.
Not because there wasn’t anything worth photographing.
Because some moments deserved to be experienced, not captured. I was able to just be in the moment with no expectations from others, and relax.
Old memories came flooding back — family holidays, time with friends, another chapter of my life that somehow still feels close. More often than not, I simply stood by the ocean watching the waves, took deep breaths and let it work its magic.
I drove back to Perth, ready to spend time with my old Saffa uni and sailing buddies before the weekend’s celebration of life party.
The following evening, one of my closest friends had organised dinner with family and friends. It was Christmas in July, because that’s what Aussies do.
The local tavern was packed. Smiling at the drive thru liquor store, I laughed having forgotten about them. The Fremantle Dockers v West Coast Eagles AFL game was on the tv screens, people were eating, laughing and shouting inside and out on the terrace.
It was just an ordinary Friday night.
And somehow, that was exactly what got me.
There was something about the ease of it all. Being surrounded by people I’d known for decades. No expectations. No explanations. Just laughter, conversation and that unmistakable feeling of belonging.
We wore our hearts on our sleeves and talked about old crushes, marriage, divorce, loss, new love, sex, work, travel adventures and everything in between.
Life.
Real life.
At one point I stepped outside for some fresh air, feeling a bit overwhelmed which had snuck up on me.
And then ‘Linger’ by The Cranberries came on.
Of all songs.
I felt the tears creep out my eyes and tried to pull myself together before heading back inside.
One of our friends looked at me and quietly asked, “Are you okay?”
I smiled.
“Yeah.”
He looked at me again.
“No…are you really okay?”
That was all it took.
He saw straight through me.
The conversation around the table stopped.
And I just started choking up and let the tears fall.
“I really miss you all.”
It was the simplest sentence.
But it held years of friendship, distance, gratitude and love.
I wasn’t crying because anything was wrong.
I was crying because I’d forgotten what it feels like to be somewhere you don’t have to explain yourself.
To simply belong because people love you and are not afraid to tell you straight up. That’s what I love about my Aussie friends.
Sometimes life doesn’t break you open through the extraordinary.
Sometimes it’s a regular Friday night, an Aussie Rules Football game on the tv, a crowded tavern and one song that quietly finds the part of your heart you didn’t even realise you’d been protecting.
The celebration of life that weekend brought everything into focus in a way I never expected.
There was sadness, of course. But there was even more love. Listening to stories, sharing memories and celebrating a life so well lived, I was reminded again that’s what really matters.
The people we love. The lives we touch. The memories we leave behind.
For me saying goodbye was deeply personal. He had been part of my life for decades, and his family had always welcomed me home, no matter how much time or distance had passed.
Standing there listening to the stories, I found myself thinking about my own dad who passed away. I felt incredibly grateful that my parents had made the decision to move our family to Perth all those years ago from Johannesburg, South Africa when I was a little girl. If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known this wonderful man or the family who became such an important part of my life.
As the following days unfolded, I found myself quietly reflecting.
On my final morning, I sat on the balcony of my Airbnb overlooking Sorrento beach and the ocean, writing another chapter of my book.
It felt strangely fitting.
I’d spent the past few weeks revisiting old memories, making new ones and understanding myself a little more clearly.
I took one last walk along Sorrento beach where we used to live, just down the road from our old family home.
I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the time I’d shared with my oldest friends. Then it was time to drive to the airport and drop off my hire car.
Before boarding my flight, I finally bought the Akubra hat I’d wanted for years. It was a little gift to myself. The lovely lady in Duty Free smiled, said it suited me and took a photo. Payment made we ended up chatting about life and discovering mutual countries we’d both lived in; including Hyderabad in India and Lusaka in Zambia.
We were blown away at the synchronicities and chance of our meeting on a random midweek afternoon in an airport duty free departure shop.
It’s funny how the smallest moments often become the ones you remember most. We were meant to connect that day.
Leaving was harder than I expected.
Returning the hire car.
Walking through the airport.
Watching Perth and Rotto disappear beneath the wings of the plane.
Each goodbye moment carried its own quiet weight. I cried allowing the release, and letting go of layers of old grief.
Not because I didn’t want to go home. But because saying goodbye to somewhere you love is never easy.
This trip helped me understand something I’d never quite been able to put into words.
Home isn’t always a place.
Sometimes it’s a feeling.
It’s feeling peaceful.
Accepted.
Connected.
Completely yourself.
That’s what Perth has always given me.
And that’s why coming back made me realise something even bigger. I can have pieces of my heart scattered across the world because it’s meaningful, and I’ve been lucky to have had those life experiences.
If a place can make you feel that way, maybe that’s the feeling I’ve been searching for in another person too.
Not someone to complete me.
Someone I can simply be myself with, and for them to be who they are as well.
Someone who feels like home.
Maybe that’s what being ready for love really means.
Not searching harder or trying to make it happen, but having a deep sense of peace within myself, where love no longer feels like something that’s missing.
Just something I’m ready to welcome in again and start a new life chapter with a fresh perspective, to attract a best mate and loving partner who I can share life with.
With love, Suitcase Cally 💙 💛
