'I quit my job at 30 to travel around the world. It changed everything.'

Somewhere high up in northern Vietnam, I was clinging to the back of a stranger's motorbike, wind whipping through my hair, mud splattering up my legs — my cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

We were winding through the jagged mountains of the Hà Giang Loop — four days of hairpin bends, tiny villages nestled in clouds, and landscapes so beautifully untamed they literally took my breath away (and maybe conjured up a few quiet tears).

I didn't know exactly where we were going. But for the first time in years, I felt absolutely free. Untethered, unattached, and alive.

Sarah pictured on her travels. Image: supplied.

Only a few months earlier, I was sitting on my couch in Perth, burnt out and hollow, Googling one-way flights out of Australia.

I was 30, single, and exhausted after seven years as a crime and courts reporter. I had spent my twenties interviewing grieving families, sitting through some of the most sickening criminal trials, and filing stories about things that had the power to keep me up for nights on end.

When I first started my career, people used to describe me as colourful, bubbly, and passionate. But that version had quietly disappeared over the years. Every day was a copy and paste of the one before — wake up, go to work, absorb other people's trauma, grapple with my conflicting feelings about writing about said trauma, come home late, scroll, try to sleep, repeat.

I wasn't living, I wasn't growing. I was just getting through. And I had this deep, gnawing feeling that I was running out of time — not in the dramatic, end-of-the-world sense, but in the quiet, soul-whispering way that says: if you don't get off this train now, you will be on it until the last stop. 

Watch: Mamamia's Editor Charlie Begg on her spontaneous trip to America. Post continues below.

So, I quit. I put my belongings into storage. I hugged my friends goodbye, booked a one-way ticket to Japan, and boarded a plane with nothing but a backpack and the hope that somewhere along the way, I might start to remember what it is to thrive again.

There's this idea that backpacking is something you do in your early twenties — before you get a "real" job, before you settle down, before you start ticking off all of society's milestones. And I get it.

When you're 30, sleeping on bunk beds in sweaty hostels alongside 22 year olds fresh out of uni can feel pretty backwards. Most of my friends back home were planning weddings or having babies.

Sarah pictured outside the airport. Image: supplied.

I was Googling "what do bed bugs look like" and trying to decide if an 18-hour bus ride was too long. But there was something so liberating about carrying everything I needed to survive on my back for 13 months.

I wasn't trying to find myself exactly — I just wanted to challenge myself, to expand my perspective past the very negative one I'd formed after so long as a journalist and to see the world. It was the bravest, scariest, most exhilarating, and hardest thing I've ever done. 

Travelling solo teaches you that loneliness and being alone are two very different things. And travelling solo as a woman teaches you how to trust yourself.

When there's no one else to turn to in a sticky situation, that's when you come face to face with who you really are.

It definitely was not the "holiday" so many people picture when you tell them you're going travelling. It was exhausting, it was emotional, and I was often completely overwhelmed by the constant stream of micro-decisions I had to make every minute of the day. (Where am I going to sleep tomorrow? Should I walk this stretch now to save money for the route later tonight? When should I do the next load of washing in a bathroom sink?)

And as a woman travelling alone, you have the added burden of always, always, balancing adventure with safety. Juggling having a good time and embracing the spontaneity that is quintessential to solo backpacking, with listening to your intuition.

Travelling solo as a woman is pretending to be on the phone when a man won't leave you alone. It's sending your sister 13,000km away a text with your live location.

It's having to weigh up what's riskier: walking the 1km to your hostel in the dark, or getting into one of the taxis that locals warned you not to get into, because there's literally no alternative. 

But it's also powerful. There's a confidence that comes from navigating foreign cities, border crossings, and chaotic bus terminals all on your own. And you definitely grow a thick skin very quickly.

"There's a confidence that comes from navigating foreign cities," writes Sarah. Image: supplied.

In the 410 days I spent overseas, I visited 48 countries across six continents. I trekked through Patagonia in Chile, taught children how to read and write English in Uganda, and had an unexpected trip to an Indian Emergency Department.

I said yes to things I never even dreamed I would do — like diving the second-biggest barrier reef in the world in Belize, or learning Spanish at a home stay in El Salvador, hiking up an active volcano and then watching it erupt, going bungee jumping at the world's biggest waterfall in Zimbabwe, climbing a wall of ice in Canada, or surfing in the Arctic Circle off the shores of Norway's Lofoten Islands.

The water was freezing, the waves unpredictable, and I was in way over my head (literally). But it was also one of the most exhilarating, surreal moments of my life.

Then there was Kilimanjaro. I'll admit I'd booked the trek, so I could say I'd climbed the tallest freestanding mountain in the world, not fully understanding what it meant to climb Africa's highest peak.

Sarah pictured looking out at a view. Image: supplied.

On summit day, I hiked for six hours in the pitch-black cold, my fingers and toes numb, the scarf around my mouth stiff with ice from my burning breath, my brain repeating one thing over and over: "just keep moving".

It was only when I was standing on the Roof of Africa, 5,895 metres above sea level, crying but also trying not to cry because I could barely breathe, that I realised just how far I'd come.

I celebrated Holi in Jaipur, drenched in pink and yellow powder, dancing in a holy temple with locals who'd welcomed me with open arms and fistfuls of colour. 

"I celebrated Holi in Jaipur, drenched in pink and yellow powder." Image: supplied.

I drove solo across Namibia, Zambia and Botswana, chased by teams of smiling children screaming "sweets!" as they ran after my car. And I hitched a ride to Colombia's Cocora Valley on the back of a stranger's ute, giving me a 360-degree view of the green paradise surrounding me, dotted by palm trees scraping the sky. 

But not every moment was magical. There were tears in airports, painful goodbyes, moments of pure and unfiltered terror, and nights where I felt crushingly alone. I spent a night stranded and alone at a bus station in Honduras after the $50 bus I'd booked never showed up.

I slept in my electric rental car after I ran out of power in Norway, and I spent my 31st birthday in three-day-old clothes after my backpack went missing.

And I wouldn't change a single thing.

Sarah pictured on the back of a moped. Image: supplied.

People often ask me if I "found what I was looking for." The truth is, I'm still figuring that out. What I do know is this: I left feeling empty, and I came back feeling full. Not in a perfectly-healed way — but full of stories, of memories, of moments that reminded me of how much beauty there is in the world, and in myself. 

I learned that discomfort doesn't mean danger — it means growth, and that we cannot change without being challenged. I learned how truly privileged I am, and I learned that kindness is a choice.

Coming home after 13 months away was tough. I've changed. I'm not chasing the same things anymore. I still love storytelling, but I don't want it to come at the cost of my well-being. I want to build a life with more space — for connection, for travel, for the kind of freedom that once felt impossible.

Because now I know what it's like to stand on top of a mountain, or dive off a bridge, and feel like I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.

And all it took was a backpack, a leap of faith, and the courage to say: 'if not now, then when?'

Feature Image: Supplied.