We all belong here.

The moment you think or wish it, that’s when you feel the loneliest.

I grew up in Rural NSW, I struggled with my identity and sexuality during my youth. Nobody I knew growing up was accepting or had any education around those topics so I remember most of my childhood as being depressed, anxious and anti social. I moved to Melbourne at 21 years old and it was so hard I didn’t know anybody. I struggled to get a job even though I had a lot of experience, I had no friends here which was hard to make friends because it felt like everyone my age had high school friends and didn’t want to be meeting anyone new. And I didn’t understand things like pronouns or understanding my sexuality which made me feel like an outcast for the first 1.5 years of living here. I was so depressed, isolated and felt alone every time I tried to get into a service it was a long wait like headspace and it gave me anxiety to receive phone calls.
Now I’m finally feeling settled, I understand myself, my identity and sexuality and made some friends that helped me discover things about me and understand them.

All Alone
Check it, check it, check it.
No messages.
Instagram? TikTok? Snapchat?
No one’s there.
Quiet hum, streaks of moonlight—
No arms to be held by.
Sound asleep, all but one.
No ears to just listen.
Drowning,
No hand to reach for.
Not worth saving.
Not a real problem.
It’s all in my head.
(Or is it?)

Moving from Thailand to Australia as an international student, I found it very difficult to make friends with the Australian locals. I lived in a residential college in my first year of University, where the demographic had very little diversity which I found very out of place. I found everyone to be quite friendly, however inside of me I knew that I didn’t fit in and I was trying so hard to get close to them and get to know them on a deeper level, however I believe that due to cultural differences and having a different background, we were never able to click that well. This caused me to feel very lonely and while living in a residential college allowed me to have people around me 24/7, I still felt isolated, and I still feel like it’s something that I can’t really describe and no one really understands.

Additionally, I tried to make friends in classes at uni, however I found that it was not as easy like it was in high school, because making friends in uni requires much more effort and consistency and requires a lot of effort from both parties in order for the friendship to flourish. With all the uni work and things getting stressful in general, I just couldn’t be bothered to keep up with it all due to all the energy that it required, so a lot of friendships that were slowly starting to form did not happen. With all of this happening in addition to feeling like I couldn’t properly connect with anyone made me feel like my first year of university was very isolating, which does not match the reality that people tend to see on Instagram, where everyone describes the first year of university as being the best year, as well as the most social year.

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I pushed the alarm with the grace of a sleepy sloth, fully prepared to drag myself out of bed and face yet another dreary school day. But then—cue the magic words—Mom’s cheerful voice chimed in, “Wake up! Your summer holidays have begun! We’re off to Grandma and Grandpa’s today!”

Instant energy surge. I leapt out of bed as if the floor were made of trampoline springs. Just like that, the suitcase was zipped, the snacks were packed, and the car smelled of ripe mangoes, travel excitement, and unfiltered childhood joy. June meant sticky fingers from devouring mango pulp, long train rides with window-seat battles, and grandma’s bottomless jars filled with homemade treats that mysteriously never ran out.

It was the season of chasing dragonflies, collecting pebbles like treasure, and sneaking spoonfuls of pickles from the ceramic jars on the terrace. Grandpa's stories were an endless loop of legends and life lessons, always ending with a wise smile and, “Back in my day…”

The ceiling fans whirred above us like sleepy helicopters, lulling us into afternoon naps on cool floor mats. Nights were reserved for rooftop star-counting contests and mosquito-chasing marathons. Every day was soaked in sunshine, laughter, and the gentle hum of a simpler time.

Cut to 24 years later.

My alarm goes off. I’m still reluctant to get up—some habits are eternal—but now two little faces peek in and whisper, “Mumma, today’s the start of our holidays!” I smile, a deep, nostalgic smile, the kind that touches the heart like a familiar old song. It's June again.

Now, I’m the one folding clothes, triple-checking chargers, and yelling, “Don’t forget your toothbrush!” The suitcase never closes on the first try, and the car, once again, is filled with the familiar aroma of mangoes and anticipation.

We play “Who spots it first?” just like I did with my cousins. I pack games for the kids, but I know they’ll abandon them soon for their Nintendo, and I remember myself running barefoot in the courtyards and playing hide and seek  and long lake walks.

Mom still makes her legendary family favorites.Dad still insists on showing everyone the old photo albums, now more fragile than before. The kitchen still bursts with the sound of ladles clinking against pots, and the clock ticks slower somehow, as if June itself doesn’t want the moment to pass.

As the journey unfolds, I glance in the rearview mirror at my giggling children. Suddenly, I’m ten again—swinging under the trees, arguing over board games, and believing that Grandma’s cookies and crochet patterns could solve world problems.

June isn’t just a month. It’s a golden time capsule, a beautifully bound diary of memories that smell of sun, sand and stories. In fact, all my writing skills will run out trying to capture the memories of all these years.

As the proverb goes, “Time and tide wait for no man,” but thankfully, June always waits for me—with open arms, mango-stained smiles, and the heartwarming comfort of coming home.

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