Dear Mom and Dad,
This one is for you.
I know, I’m 26 years old.
I know I may not lead a tidy settled life as you wish …
I know I’m on the other side of the world and probably too far for you …
I know you miss your little daughter… I would love to tell you that it is reciprocal.
The truth is that yes, I miss you.
The truth is also that I did not really have time to miss you most of the time.
Dad, I know you do not always understand why my plans change.
If life is full of unexpected, adventure is also full of surprises.
The truth is that I constantly change my mind; my doubts get stuck in my dreams.
How often have you asked me when you will return home?
The truth is that I don’t want to give you false promises.
The truth is that I have no clue.
The world is too big.
And I’m too small.
Dad, yes, I have hitch-hiked. I also became a pro.
Why take the bus if I can go there for free” has become my favorite transport quote. Yes, sometimes, I have been afraid. Yes, I’m still alive. Yes, I plan to do it again.
I went to Australia with a smaller budget than I expected.
I worked on average 50-80 hours for four months before my departure to Australia. It seems that it was not enough … The truth is that the visa is so easy to get that customs did not check my bank account … And thank God.
Yes, I ended up being broke more than once. And I became a farmer. A real farmer! I am proud to say that I survived the regional work beyond my expectations.
You know that I’ve had crappy jobs … but you don’t know how I have left.
Life is too short to be unhappy … The adventure is too short to be painful. Have I crossed the world to get stuck with the worst job ever? Unless I am that broke and need to survive a bit, I have left some of these jobs impulsively…
Yes, I left three jobs in the middle of my shift. Yes, I left a job via text message… Yes, I left a job with a day’s notice … Yes, I’m not always 100% responsible. Am I still an adult?
I have crossed Australia with a stranger (let’s say 90% stranger).
Yes, I crossed the country with an Englishman I met through a group of backpackers … on Facebook.
And we bought the car the day after our official meeting. I even fell in love with that guy.
I still have debts back home
Although I told you more than once that my debts were lower than they are … they are still too real. I pay for it … through the currency exchange and costly international transfer fees.
I would love to visit you, but…
I need to pay my debts (see, I am an adult!). Being on the other side of the planet, I prefer to spend less and visit the countries around here. It’s only a matter of budget…
I feel guilty for my absence
I feel guilty for not being there in the good times, as in the worst. I feel guilty for giving you false hopes when I think I’ll have enough money to come and visit you, and finally, snap! My plans change again…
I feel incredibly guilty for my craving for poutine
Will you hate me if I say that the thing I miss the most in Quebec it’s the food? My first thought … My first need … My Quebecker food habits. I know I’m an ungrateful daughter. But I cannot skype with my poutine. (Poutine is simply THE best Quebecker meal)
I find it hard to project a long-term life in Quebec
Being anxious, I am a pro at making scenarios. I hardly imagine myself in the middle of a small sedentary family in all these potential future scenarios. I don’t want to be stuck somewhere. I’m sorry, I can’t.
I find it so easy to project a long-term life … Somewhere… on the road
So, where do you imagine yourself, you should ask? I do not know. But I’ll probably be somewhere trying to catch my heart.
To you Mom
The half who pushes me to go forward and comforts me when I am full of doubts. Thanks, Mom.
There are probably 20% of my adventures that I dedicate to you. My mother, she has multiple sclerosis. Her condition did not allow her to travel anymore. She strongly urged me to live fully. My photos become her journey, her pride, she said.
For all those times you forget your Skype password, when you send me a hug, when you cry of happiness…
Know that even if I feel guilty sometimes, I know I’m where you want me to be. And that feeling … allows me to pull myself together.
To you Dad
The half who worries, cares, wants to know that I’ll be safe … the half who doubts but hopes for the best. Thank you, Dad.
Dad, the rationality first, then the passion. I remember that one day, you told me you were afraid for my future, that I should start thinking about my pension fund, that, perhaps, I had no ambition…
Dad, what would you answer if I told you that I don’t have any of these worries? If my ambition is to be happy, is it enough? Dad, thank you for agreeing, at your own pace, with my nomadic reality.
