Roots or Wings?

It’s summer in Sydney. It’s November and I’m drinking white wine, the first of many to celebrate my birthday.
Dusk is arriving in Darling Harbour and it’s possibly the most beautiful evening I’ve ever seen.
I’m with my boyfriend, he’s French.
My 7 amazing housemates are calling me to say they have champagne and  shots waiting for me at home so I should hurry back to get the pre-party started before we head out to dance all night at The Argyle in The Rocks. The best start to a birthday. Ever.It’s just…
Frenchy’s 21. I’m one of 8 europeans in a 2 bedroom apartment. It’s my birthday  and I haven’t seen my family in over a year. I’m about to drink my body  weight in shots.
I’m not turning 21. I’m turning 31!

Sara Hardman Travels

The Rocks, Sydney

That realisation was the beginning of the end for my life of freedom on the open-ended backpacking trip across the world.
It’s been a year. 365 days have passed since I took a flight out of Sydney because you can’t have roots and wings, you have to make a choice.
I’m 32 and, apparently, I have roots. I’ve never had roots before. Just two years ago I had wings. Glorious, long, golden wings that took me all  over the world, alone and unafraid.
Sara Hardman Travels

Always ready for the next adventure

Then, it happened.
It was November 11 2010 and I awoke with an unwelcome and incurable complaint. I was growing roots and ‘home’ was a real possibility for the first time.
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