Australia: Into the Wild

Some decisions aren’t rational, or at least, they don’t seem to be. They’re the kind of choices you make purely from your gut, or maybe your heart, after spending months (or years) smothering them under the weight of "doing the right thing" or worrying about "what people might think."

But honestly... what people?

When I decided to head to Australia, I wasn’t just planning a trip. For the very first time in my life, I was trying to make a call that wasn't tied to anyone else: not a girl, not a job, not my family's expectations. I wanted a choice that was mine and mine alone, along with all the responsibility and fallout that came with it.

In upcoming posts, I'll dive into the bureaucracy, Working Holiday Visas, costs, hostels, and what life was actually like in Western Australia. But first, here’s the story of how I got there. Because before you even start packing, your heart has to convince your mind that it’s okay to learn to jump by jumping.

The call of the Wild

I’ve always been drawn to the idea of living surrounded by nature, but being a city kid from Naples, I never really grew up with a culture of camping or the great outdoors. The first time I ever bought a tent, I was already 23 and living in the Netherlands. I still remember that pure, almost childish excitement of trying to pitch it under the stars: it took me until sunrise just to figure out how the damn thing worked, but to me, it felt like I’d just conquered the world.

Australia was always the ultimate level-up of that feeling. I wanted to surf (even if my track record is terrible, let's be real), I wanted to see a kangaroo up close, and above all, I wanted to go as far away as humanly possible. I wanted to strip life down to the basics and shake off all that "Western baggage" (which, honestly, I’m still trying to shed today).

I wanted to go full Into the Wild.

When my mental health first took a nosedive at work, my immediate instinct was to run. But because of various personal things going on, I couldn't just leave. Time dragged on, and I kept overthinking. I had even bought a flight ticket in the past—with cancellation insurance, of course—only to freeze up, paralyzed by the fear of not knowing what the hell I was doing. But then, after two solid years of completely valid doubts and fears, I hit my breaking point: no more math, no more overthinking. It was time to go.

A spring Sunday in Barcelona

It was a late spring Sunday in Barcelona. I was sitting at my usual Italian cafe where I had breakfast every morning: an espresso, a croissant (or brioche, as they call it up North in Italy), and a physical copy of El Periódico to practice my Spanish and keep up with local politics.

Spain made me who I am today. I carry it in my heart and miss it immensely—it’s a truly magical place. But that morning, as I was sipping my coffee, it hit me: a chapter of my life was coming to an end. Maybe it was the end of the beginning? I pulled out my phone and bought that damn ticket.

Why Perth, of all places? Because I was fascinated by the fact that it’s the most isolated major city on the planet. And trust me: when you land there, you realize what being truly isolated from the rest of the world actually feels like.

The Preparation

We’re so used to wanting to control everything. The second you decide to change your life, your brain starts bombarding you with questions: What visa do I need? Where am I staying the first few nights? How am I going to find a job?

I sorted out the visa bureaucracy, booked a hostel for the first two weeks, and told myself I’d figure out the rest south of the equator.

Then came the packing situation. My trusty orange National Geographic backpack—the loyal travel buddy that had been with me across Europe, the US, Canada, and two Santiago Caminos, was completely dead on its feet. I had to retire it and buy a brand-new one. A blank canvas, ready to be filled with a whole new life.

You don't sleep the night before you leave. The people around me tried their best to be supportive, but deep down, I felt like no one really got it. I used to think that as you grow older and gain more experience, you get immune to goodbyes and departures. But not me. Every single move still carries that same bittersweet mix of dramatic dread and raw excitement as the very first time.

At the airport, my mom was crying, I was crying. I had this hollow pit in my stomach mixed with an electric tingling on the roof of my mouth. A massive shockwave that told me just one thing: I am fucking alive.

Arriving in Perth: Listening to the Whistle

My first few days in Perth were a total blur. Between a brutal jet lag that kept me wide awake and the sheer cost of the hostel, my mind was racing and I felt overwhelmed by the urge to do ten thousand things all at once. I’d wake up at 5 a.m. with the sun already blazing, dead tired, but deeply, truly happy. There was this distinct smell of Australia in the air; I honestly don't know how else to describe it.If there’s one thing this journey taught me right from the start, it’s that it doesn’t matter what your own "trip to Australia" actually looks like.Whether it’s catching a flight to the other side of the planet, quitting a job that’s draining your soul, or walking away from a situation that makes you miserable: DO IT.

Listening to your own needs isn't selfish. And even if it feels that way for a second, there's a healthy kind of selfishness, let's call it the self-preservation of your own happiness.Listening to that call, that inner wake-up whistle telling you there’s something more out there, takes real courage. You’re telling yourself, "Hey, just this once, let's make our own damn decisions." And if you feel like you don't know how to spread your wings yet, don't worry: you'll learn how to open them while you're already in mid-air. Buy the damn ticket. Send that text. Start that project. Embrace the art of just being in all its forms and nuances.

Go fly, into the wild.

Pinky Sky thanks to Rayleigh Scattering effect.