The upside of post-holiday blues

It's that time of year...

That was a longer hiatus than I imagined for ‘Real life, but better’… It turns out that family holidays don’t leave a lot of time (or head space) for writing long pieces. But I’m back!

Oaxaca, Mexico. The colours, the shadows, the light…

We arrived home less than two weeks ago after three wonderful months of gallivanting extravagantly. It’s been busy. In the first week, we unpacked all our stuff from the shed back into the house; three kids started school (two at new schools, including one at high school); my parents came to stay for a few days while Guy and I went interstate for an amazing 50th. (This was in addition to ordinary stuff: Guy’s first week back at work; my attempts to get up to speed with all the work and admin I’ve ignored.)

It’s lovely to be back home, glorious to sleep in my own bed. I’ve appreciated anew regular luxuries like running local trails, swimming in the cool, clean ocean and having more than 30 seconds a day away from my family. Still, it's never easy readjusting to normal life.

I’m not complaining, just reflecting.

I wrote this piece a while ago, but it still rings true, to me at least. This time around the blues aren’t as intense - I’m very grateful to be back in a world where you can flush toilet paper and drink water from the tap. (It’s the little things!) But who knows - it might hit in a few weeks. Fingers crossed it doesn’t.

The post-holiday blues

Post-holiday blues are sudden and vicious. Within hours of walking in the door, your relaxed state is buried under overflowing washing, the putrid liquid leaking from the kitchen bin and a mounting mental ‘to do’ list. Sure, it’s nice to sleep in your own bed, but the exciting adventure you’ve been looking forward to for months has just been transformed into memories, photos and credit card bills. Ahead lies everyday monotony. Your life, usually quite lovely in its routine, now stretches ahead in a grind of workdays, school lunches and admin.

Like many things, time is a good healer. Within days of returning from a fabulous road trip to Uluru, my husband’s initial slump (summed up by, ‘I don’t think it’s worth going anywhere, ever again’) had transformed into golden memories. We hung up the dot paintings we did with our Indigenous guide, marvelled at the red dirt ingrained in our clothes, talked about camels, witchetty grubs and Indigenous star constellations.

Part of the slump is the shock of returning to reality. This is particularly true if you splurge on luxury, creating shiny little parcels of fun that make the everyday look grimy and dull. A travel-writing junket in 2014 spent enveloped in the decadence of the Eastern & Oriental Express from Singapore to Bangkok (bookended by Raffles and the Mandarin Oriental) gave me an excellent example.

I’ve got plenty of other, similar images: trays of breakfast amazingness delivered to my cabin, cocktails in the cigar lounge, playing the baby grand in the on-board piano lounge…

A few days later, the photos switch to ones like these. No wonder I found it hard to go back to normal (but lovely) family life.

Adjusting to my beloved (but ‘gentrifying’!) St Kilda neighbourhood after this five-day ‘work trip’ was never going to be easy. The limousine treatment ended in Thailand so I walked along the grafittied streets from the train station, avoiding the people drinking on benches outside the supermarket. I reached my rented house: it was the sort of place that parents hate. The old, brown carpet was dotted with burn marks, the toilet opened off the dining room, and the special reflective window covering reduced the summer temperature to a balmy 35°C but made it look like a Baltimore crack den.

For a few days I saw my home through my folks’ eyes. Nothing could redeem it: not the budget-friendly price, awesome location or the street full of friends and kids for playtime at parks, cafes and pubs. Before I could throw myself into beach trips and puddle splashing and writing, I had to farewell my imaginary life, complete with personal butler, breakfast in bed and black-tie dinners.

Sometimes it’s not a dream you’re farewelling but your own past - a longer, more painful process. In 2022 our family spent a week in Melbourne. It had been five years since we’d moved to Sydney, and this holiday was supposed to be a rejuvenating family jaunt. It was a chance for everyone to catch up with old friends, revisit favourite haunts, celebrate all we love about the city and reconnect with our roots. I imagined afternoons of barbecues and beer, the kids playing blissfully while friends and I lounged, debriefing our lives. Instead catch ups were crammed into two-hour windows during which the kids milled awkwardly, beginning to bond around the time we had to leave. My husband was working so I was single parenting – the kids got sick and I got knackered.

I was looking for a sense of belonging but ended up with loss. My friends’ lives had moved on, as had mine. That part of my life – with little kids and play dates and close, daily contact with mates and too much wine to make up for too little sleep, and venting and sharing about relationships and naps and in-laws – it’s done. While living it, it often seemed tortuous, never-ending, brain-numbing and sure to drain me of all personality, curiosity and ambition. But in hindsight it has a golden glow, buffed by nostalgia, connections and friendships. That holiday forced me to relinquish this stage, as well as admit that the harbour city is now home.

I returned to Sydney feeling adrift, needing to accept one home and farewell another.

These type of post-holiday blues are different: they’re about getting older, valuing friends and being okay with the fact that things change. Because they do, every single day. Holidays just give you the time and space to notice.

Maybe that’s the upside of the slump: it gives you time to reflect on your new normal, recognise what you have and what is missing, and realise what needs to change.

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And everyone gets older…

My second child starting high school seems much easier than my first, at least so far. A big part of it is that both she and we know what to expect. And I’ve already dealt with the feeling that I was being shunted to the wings while my daughter took centre stage, so (luckily!) haven’t had to revisit the accompanying headmess Or who knows - maybe that’s still to come too?

Here’s a piece I wrote for ABC Everyday about the emotional turmoil of moving on to new life chapters. It’s another thing that might be useful this time of year.