'When I moved overseas for love, the new life I pictured came crumbling down.'

I'm stuck. It's not the kind of stuck where your feet are caught in mud, it's the stuck where your soul feels weighted, where every step forward feels more like sinking deeper into a life that doesn't look anything like the glossy photos in your imagination.

Three months ago, I traded the cobblestones of London for the wide, red-dusted roads of regional New South Wales. I traded late-night pub crawls with my friends for *Ethan's mum's rigid home-life routine. And I traded my cheeky beagle, *Rufus, for… well, no one. Rufus couldn't make the trip. They said Australia's quarantine process would be too much for him.

When Ethan and I met in Spain, it was sunshine and tapas and sangria-drenched afternoons that stretched into star-lit nights. We laughed until our stomachs hurt and shared plans for adventures that felt too big to be real. He was the Aussie bloke who made every moment fun, and I was the London girl who made him laugh with my sarcasm and wit. Together, we were dynamite. So much so that we managed to make the long distance thing work for over two years.

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Now that I've moved to Australia, we're more like a damp sparkler that fizzles out before the fun begins. Ethan's at work all day, labouring for the local council. He comes home with dust in his hair and a smile on his face, all proud of the day he's had. I… don't have those stories. My days are empty, save for a few awkward cups of tea with his mum or trips to the local Woolies to buy unfamiliar ingredients.

It's not like I'm not trying. I've joined the community Facebook group and even went to a book club that meets at the library every second Thursday. They were discussing some outback romance novel that felt like a cruel joke. "Don't you just love how she gives it all up for love?" one of the women had gushed, and I wanted to scream, "No! Because this is what happens! You end up living in someone else's life, wondering if you've lost yourself entirely!"

Instead, I smiled, nodded, and added nothing to the conversation because I hadn't even read the book.

Ethan keeps telling me to "see the big picture." He talks about our plans to move to Sydney and rent a flat in Bondi, close enough to the beach that we'll feel like we're on one of our travel adventures again. He's confident I'll make more friends and find work more easily there. He promises me it's just a matter of time and savings. But it's hard to see the big picture when the frame you're in feels like it's closing in on you.It's like I ordered the life of my dreams on a cheap, dodgy website and now that it's here it was never going to fit properly.

It was the beaches that sold me on Australia, you know. Those endless stretches of white sand, the kind you'd see on a postcard. Ethan and I spent hours walking along them when I came out here on holiday. We'd dip our toes in the water and talk about everything — our dreams, our future, the life we wanted to build together. It's why I agreed to leave everything behind.

But here in his little town, the beach is a 45-minute drive away, and we've only been there once. "No time," Ethan says. "We're saving up, remember?"

I remember. It's hard not to when I'm sitting in his parents' dated living room, surrounded by crocheted rugs and porcelain figurines. They're lovely people, really. His mum is trying very hard to make me feel welcome. But it's not home. It's not me.

And — moan alert — I can't even call my best mate to cry about it properly because the time difference means she's either at work or asleep. When we do manage to talk, I downplay it all. "It's fine," I say. "Just an adjustment period."

She's not buying it. "Leah," she'd said last time, "are you happy?"

I dodged the question with a joke because if I answered honestly, I might've broken down completely.

I'm not happy. Not yet. But admitting that feels like a betrayal to the version of myself who stood at Heathrow Airport with her suitcase and heart full of hope. It feels like letting Ethan down after everything he's done to make this work.

The other night, after dinner, I told Ethan how I was feeling. I expected him to shrug it off or tell me to stick it out, but he surprised me.

"I know it's hard, Leah," he said, taking my hand. "I can see it. But this isn't forever. It's just a stepping stone. I need you to trust me on this."

I nodded because what else could I do? But as I lay in bed that night, staring at the dusty ceiling fan, I wondered how many stepping stones it would take before I found solid ground again.

I think about Bali a lot. That trip feels like it happened in another lifetime. My sister and I flew over to meet Ethan and his friends there before I moved out here. For three weeks, it was like living in a dream. We explored temples and swam in turquoise waters. We laughed over late-night massages and cheap, delicious dinners, and it was the kind of magic that makes you believe anything is possible. But here, in this small town, that magic feels so far away.

I think about Rufus, too. About how he's probably curled up on the couch getting spoiled by my parents. He's happy, and I'm glad. But I miss him.

Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to pack up and go home. To walk back into my old life and pretend none of this ever happened. But then I remember the beaches. I remember the feeling of Ethan's hand in mine as we planned our future. I remember why I said yes in the first place.

Maybe I'm not stuck, after all. Maybe I'm just in the in-between — that messy, uncomfortable space where growth happens. And maybe, just maybe, one day I'll look back on this and see that it wasn't the end of the world. It was just the beginning of something new.

*Names have been changed.

Feature Image: Getty.