You cannot look out the back of a plane the way you can when leaving somewhere by car, watching the past shrink in the rearview mirror. In the jittering rush of the plane’s take off, I left my birth town in Queensland on the Tropic of Capricorn, flying 3,000 kilometres down the Australian East Coast to Tasmania. Full throttle through the clouds, the past disappeared.
Relief, sadness, and excitement all swirled inside me. There had been little time to process the move, consumed as I was reducing life from a house to five boxes. I had wanted to drive south, to feel the transition over a week, but work denied my request. They shipped my car and boxes while I boarded a plane, losing only a single day in the office. I worked Monday and Tuesday in Queensland, flew down on Wednesday, and finished the week in the Hobart office.
Suspended in the air, I was acutely aware of the past behind me and the unknown ahead. Now, from the back seat of a taxi into Hobart, the Tasman Bridge comes into view, and with it, the looming presence of Mt. Wellington. In that ancient rock, I sensed the real reason I had come. The wildness of it towered over the city, tugging at something unnamed inside me. It arose like a question forming on my lips, though I had no words for it—yet.
What I did have was this new land, and the very sight of it brought the hairs on my arms to attention. The mountain watched as I made my way into the city. When I stepped out of the taxi, I paused under the sharp February sun, gazing up at the towering rock pillars—stunning yet unapologetically intrusive. Their Jurassic age held a quiet strength that called to me.
In my first weeks, new workmates drew me into their insatiable nightlife. Though it was a good way to meet people, I soon found myself enjoying the walk home more than the night out on the town. I would look up at the moonlit mountain, feeling its gaze like the weight of an unseen observer.
Expressing my desire to explore the land to new friends led four of us to Hartz Peak. The alpine scenery starkly contrasted with the dry bushland of Queensland—I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. I walked as if tapping into a new well of strength, drawing energy from the land, gazing out over mountain ranges stretching far into the distance. The hike was magnificent, breathtaking, and dangerous, filling me with quiet confidence as I reached the top. As we descended the boulder-strewn summit, my eyes rested on the horizon. That unapologetic landscape was all I could see, and it dawned on me: I wasn’t just here to look outward to the world—I was being led on a journey within, back to myself.
Continuing to explore more of Tasmania, I soon stood face to face with the Huon Pine. The patience of its slow growth whispered lessons to me, drawing me out of the frantic rush I had been living in. I had been flapping in the winds of my life, untethered. As I ran my hand across the soft yet rough bark, the Pine told me it was time to come home within—to build strength in myself, to grow slowly, deliberately. The first guiding pillar of my journey within—to which there would be three—was patience, revealed in this tree, one of the oldest living organisms on Earth. Patience, it whispered, in a world of quick results and shallow living, the Huon Pine reminded me that depth and meaning come from steady, purposeful growth. Like the tree, I could cultivate resilience—not by rushing but by allowing time to work in my favour. Looking back on my thirty years, I now had a choice: how would I step forward into the next thirty? Change happens incrementally, one step at a time. My journey was unfolding, one that took me out into the world but was leading me back home within to find my footing and carry myself with the quiet strength of knowing who I am.
At a wildlife sanctuary, I uncover my second pillar in the face of none other than the Devil. I am brought back to the idea of resilience via the Tasmanian Devil, with its ferocity in the face of challenges, reminding me of the power of resilience. The species is fighting against Devil Facial Tumour Disease—a devastating reality, yet they adapt. I am reminded of us all. No one I have met has an easy past. We carry deep wounds, and we go on, adapting and surviving. The more I come to know people, the more I stand in awe of them. Our stories are full. We are resilient. This Devil highlights the strength I search for that is already within. Resilience is there in me, I will come to it. It is time that I became proud of how I have adapted too. I find this easier with each step I take on the hiking trail, demonstrating each summit is reached one step at a time, and each complete hike shows me that I am capable, that no journey is easy, yet there are magnificent views along the way, but if nothing else I am always the strength that makes it through.
Hike after hike, I am redirected that little bit more back to the home I carry within, and so I seek them out and seek fellow adventures each chance I get. One day, while hiking, I pause by a stream. Water babbles over the rocks, and I am drawn into its movement. The water does not fight the rocks, nor does it avoid them. It simply moves—graceful, persistent. Not apologetic, not forceful—just aware that both rock and water can exist together. And so, they dance, adapting while staying true to themselves. I want this dance, this way of moving with my challenges, adapting, gracefully maintaining myself as I go on. My past and my future, dancing. The self that didn’t know better, loved by the self that one day does. The mountains that lay behind me and all that are ahead are intertwined as I am lifted by all that I have lived through.
It isn’t long before I am climbing Cradle Mountain. The ascent is steep, and I remind myself I want this—the burn in my legs, the sweat on my back. Yes, I want this. I have to want the struggle to want the view of this hike. I reach a clearing, looking up at the Mountain Peak. Glacial lakes shimmer below, buttongrass moorlands stretch out, and alpine plants cling to the rugged slopes. Looking down at the path I had climbed, I realise that my third and final pillar that has me back on my path is what I have overcome and the dance I sway to into my future. I see the grace I carry, the strength I have always had. What once overwhelmed me, I have faced growing stronger, adapting, and overcoming step by step—with gratitude for the people who now walk beside me and all who have come before me.
I travelled to return. I went out into the world to come home within. Tasmania has shown me, with its diversity and wildness, that there is a place for all of us, that with grace and love, we can dance unapologetically as ourselves. The path within is not a destination. It is not a single step nor a definable answer. It is like the seasons shifting on an ever-evolving earth. It is an unfolding, a continuous return. It is a path not about a destination but rather the walk itself, up steep hills, through boulder-strewn fields, turning back in the sleet when necessary, and sometimes waiting out the storm. It is the path of life, and I travel it to return to within.
I travelled to return. I went out into the world to come home within.
Ta Hiron
Beautifully written, Ta.
I'm especially inspired by the image of past and future selves dancing together.
Annie B
Beautifully written and deeply expressed truth. Thank you!