Growing out

Growing Out

I grew up in a town, surround by sea; to be near the water was all I knew. I was raised in the ocean, nurtured by the sand, and sought solace in the depths of the salty swell.

I was nicknamed an otter for the hours I spent aimlessly splashing around. My parents calls for ‘home time’ were drowned out by the waves meaning one of them would begrudgingly have to come and drag me out. I loved the feeling of the sun, basking on my skin, warming me whenever I emerged from the cool expanse. I loved the smell, a potent mix of salt and sunscreen. I even loved the feeling on my body, the icy prickles as the sea caressed my skin, the weightlessness I felt floating as it rested me on its surface and the rough tumble as it showed its true force and dragged me through it. But most of all I loved the moment right before you sink your head under water when the cacophony of beachgoers that assaults your ears becomes silent, and it’s suddenly just you, alone with the sea.

I loved the beach, nothing made me happier. I spent the weekends there exploring a difference beach along the expansive peninsula, or a different cove tucked into the cliffs of the bay.

But then I went to high school, and bodies were every girls focal point, and suddenly mine didn’t feel as good as in a swimsuit. And suddenly everyone was watching me in a swimsuit, and all I want is to get my head under the water and drown it out, but too many people would see.

So I start going to the beach alone, and dodging friends plans when they organise to go. But in a small town, you know everyone, you run into everyone. Everyone see’s you. And soon I started getting anxious going to my favourite place in the world.

And so I stopped going to the beach.

***

I don’t remember how I joined or why, but I remember almost every second of my under 9’s soccer career. We played at the oval near my house, training every Thursday in jerseys of green and gold; a jersey I would wear for eleven years.

I spent more time at that oval than I could count, it soon became my second home. If someone couldn’t find me the response was simply “have you checked the oval?”. I coached junior players, trained there and volunteered at the canteen. Most of my weekends growing up I was there playing, working or watching. It was where I walked the dogs. It was the first place my parents let me walk to by myself unsupervised.

For me, being on that field, playing a home game, knowing my parents were watching, knowing the layout of the field and how to manipulate it (the tacky bit in the middle that was a cricket pitch in the summer would make the ball spin faster across it’s flat surface), the surprise of looking up to see that my grandparents had walked down to watch - there was no better feeling.

It was a place where I could challenge myself, have fun and dream. It’s where I decided I was destined to be a professional soccer player. But it was also here that I learnt just because you love something, doesn’t mean it’s meant to be.

I tried out for the professional soccer team in my area, my first step to soccer super stardom. Everyone came to watch, my friends, my family … boys. I had the home ground advantage - they were hosting try outs on my oval. I ran my heart out and played the best I’d every played. I could feel my friends cheering, I could feel my dream coming to life on this oval.

Two weeks later the team postings came out. And I hadn’t made the team. I wasn’t good enough. My parents said it was time to focus on my studies.

And so I stopped playing soccer and I didn’t go back to the oval.

***

There was a secret garden at the end of my street. It was actually a rather large public gardens, but my street lead to a little know bush track that doubled as a back entrance and so I felt entitled to it, my secret garden. When I first went, the gardens seemed like a maze, a never-ending labyrinth of paths, trails, flowers and tree’s. An overwhelming kaleidoscope of greenery and florals mixed with a cacophony of bird calls and rustling leaves. I never thought I’d make sense of it all, let alone know my way around.

It became my secret escape. My sister and I would make fairy gardens in rose bushes and our favourite activity became hide and seek with dad who was too big to fit into the cubby in the play sets where we used to hide. As I grew older I took books to read in my hidden gazebos, I studied at the picnic tables and had friends round for picnics on the grass. I took walks around the paths I began to know instinctively, every corner, every nook and every trail familiar to me. It was where I went to relieve my stresses by the duck pond, to daydream of romance by the rose garden or to climb the rickety bridges when I felt like adventure.

But then my sister and I stopped making fairy gardens when we realised it was wrong to pick the roses and soon after my dad was too old to chase us around for hours. I no longer fit in the play set. I lost my passion for reading, wanting to go online instead, and I studied at the library in school with my tutors and teachers knowing if I didn’t i’d fail. My friends and I moved our picnics to restaurants where the wine made us feel so adult and I went to see someone about my emotions.

I ran out of time for walks and soon the lay out of my once secret escape began to slip from my mind.

And one day, without realising, I just stopped going.

***

I moved cities shortly after that and the town I had once felt was a part of me, a town I had dreamed of never leaving, felt like a stranger.

It soon became a place I resented for years, and looked down on the people who stayed. I felt angry towards it. The place that had raised me, sheltered me, helped me, grew me… it had out grown me.

And so we drifted apart. And I held on to my bitterness, and my resentment and I didn’t go back. I stayed in my new home, made new connections with the new world around me and most importantly, I grew.

Now, the heaviest i’ve been, I go to the beach every moment I can. I run into the arms of the ocean, desperate to dive into its liquid embrace to drown out the sound. I didn’t know anyone in my new town, so I didn’t care who was watching, and then slowly I didn’t care what I looked like at all.

I joined a soccer team in my new home town, and even thought the oval doesn’t guide me like the one I grew up on, it feels euphoric to be back. I reassessed my dream of being a professional soccer player and realised my dream was simply to be playing soccer forever, and here I am. Doing just that.

I found a new garden and I spend my days hidden in the leafy oasis with a book in hand, each day seeking a new spot to lie in, a new hidden cove to explore and always, always remaining on the look out for fairies.

And I thought to myself how different I was, how happy I was here and I ignored the pull of my hold home, determined to never go back.

But then I did. Of course I did, I couldn’t avoid it forever. And as I found my way back to the town that raised me, the town I thought let me down and pushed me away, as I made my way through familiar streets, saying hello to old friends, I realised the never didn’t let me go; it let me grow. You never think you’ll outgrow your home, but there I was, all those years ago, in a crowded town where I felt alone, ready for a change, waiting for a push in the right direction. I just didn’t know it yet.

I have a new home now, in a different city, in a different state. But, when I go back now, and swim in the sea, run on the field or sit beneath the tree’s, it feels like my hometown stretches open its arms to me in a warm embrace and whispers: Oh my how you’ve grown.