Back Into the Lion’s Den

I wasn’t sure I’d ever go back.

Sydney was once a chapter I thought I’d closed. Fast-paced, full of noise, beautiful in a way that’s easy to fall for — and just as easy to lose yourself in. I spent nearly a decade there. Made friends. Made mistakes. Burned through joy and pain like kindling.

When I left, it wasn’t just about lifestyle. It was self-preservation. I needed space. I needed sobriety. I needed silence — the kind that lets you finally hear yourself think.

So, when the call came a few weeks ago after a very successful secondment period, asking if I’d consider stepping into a bigger role — one that would take me back to the city I’d spent years unravelling in — I felt that old mix of hesitation and hope.

Was I ready to go back into the lion’s den?

A Different Version of Me

I said yes.

Not immediately. Not without a few walks, a few phone calls, a few nights lying awake trying to listen for the difference between growth and relapse. But eventually, I said yes.

And here’s why: I am not the same person who left.

Back then, I was exhausted. Chasing highs and hiding lows. Building a life that looked good from the outside but felt hollow on the inside. I had the job title, the events, the Instagram feed. But I was scattered. Unanchored. Trying to prove something — to others, to myself.

Now? I’m grounded. I’m sober. I have structure, strategy, rituals that hold me. I don’t run from the hard stuff — I face it. I’ve built a toolkit of coping mechanisms I never knew I needed: movement, sleep, truth-telling, boundaries.

So, when I stepped back into that office, into that city, into some of those familiar rooms — it wasn’t with fear. It was with quiet confidence.

Because while the surroundings might be the same, I am not.

Lessons from the Deep End

The past few months have been a crash course in exactly the kind of growth I used to only dream about.

I’ve sat in high-stakes meetings with government reps and hospital execs. I’ve helped manage crisis communications during moments that would’ve made the old me crumble. I’ve had my work — and my voice — recognised at a level I never expected.

And the truth is: I’ve earned it.

I’ve worked hard. I’ve held my ground. I’ve learned when to speak, when to listen, and when to walk away. I've learned that being good at your job doesn't mean saying yes to everything — it means knowing what deserves your time.

But growth doesn’t cancel out grief. And that’s the part no one prepares you for.

The Friendships That Can’t Come With You

This has been the hardest part.

Going back means seeing people I once loved — people I partied with, laughed with, leaned on. Some of them I’ll always hold a soft spot for. But others… it’s different now.

Because sobriety changes your lens. You stop romanticising the chaos. You see patterns where you once saw parties. You recognise pain beneath the punchlines.

And you realise that some friendships — no matter how fun or formative they were — are anchored in a version of you that no longer exists.

Letting go of those connections doesn’t mean I don’t care. It just means I care more about staying well.

It’s not judgment. It’s boundaries. It’s self-protection. It’s looking at your life and saying: nothing is worth breaking my mental health wall for. And absolutely no one is worth breaking my sobriety for.

That’s the standard now. And not everyone is going to meet it.

The Power of Saying Yes (and Knowing When to Say No)

So much of this chapter is about choice.

Not obligation. Not autopilot. Not fear of missing out. But conscious, grounded choice.

I choose to show up for work that stretches me. I choose to surround myself with people who reflect the future I want, not just the past I survived. I choose early nights over late regrets. I choose uncomfortable honesty over comfortable numbness.

And when those old feelings creep in — the social anxiety, the urge to please, the whisper of old habits — I notice them. I breathe. I move. I text someone safe. I remind myself: you’ve been here before. But now you know the way out.

A Life That Fits

This isn’t about being perfect. God, no.

There are still moments I doubt myself. Still mornings where the city feels loud and the pressure feels sharp. But those moments don’t own me anymore. They pass. And in their place comes something steadier: pride. Not just in my work — but in myself.

I’m building a life that actually fits. One where ambition and wellness coexist. One where sobriety isn’t just a discipline — it’s a gift. One where connection is intentional, not convenient.

I know now that I can do this. That I can come back without falling back. That I can revisit old places while protecting new parts of me.

And that’s the difference.

I’m not going back to find something. I’m going forward to bring something.

Myself. Whole. Present. Ready.