The Melbourne Code

There’s something about being back in Melbourne that messes with my operating system. I don’t mean that metaphorically. It feels like a literal code—let’s call it The Melbourne Code—some buried line of script that starts running the moment I touch down. I can’t see it, but I can feel it like a background process chewing up RAM. It creeps up slowly, so I don’t notice until my heart is racing over nothing, or I find myself grinding my teeth at night. It’s not new. I’ve known this code for years. I just thought I’d finally deleted it. But lately, it’s come back online.

Maybe it’s a virus, something that embedded itself deep when I was young. I don’t remember installing it. I certainly wouldn’t choose it. But there it is—triggered most acutely when I’m dreaming. The dreams themselves are foggy by morning, but the aftertaste is bitter: frustration, self-doubt, futility. Who wrote this code? Was it my father? My culture? The city itself? Does it even matter? All I know is that it hums louder when I’m here, and it quiets when I’m somewhere else—Bali, Japan, even just on the road.

I do better when I’m elsewhere. My body knows how to breathe in Bali. My mind stretches out like it’s been let off the leash. I’m more present, more fluid, more me. Here, in Melbourne, the jerk in my head grabs the baton and starts conducting. He’s erratic. He loves Stravinsky over Bach. Chaos over calm. And I let him.

But there’s no actual threat. Nothing is coming for me. No enemies, no disasters, no dramatic unraveling. And yet, I often wake with a hum of anxiety already vibrating in my bones, like something bad is about to happen. The days start cold and hesitant. I shuffle to the dining room table, do my blood test, sip coffee, and write. But then I get stuck. It’s like I’ve been pinned down. The day slips through my fingers before I even find a rhythm.

If I manage a walk or a gym session, I feel relief. If I fit in a sauna, I feel triumphant. But mostly, I tick boxes. I shop. I cook. I clean. I file things. I write music. I write blogs. I write how I feel. But I don’t meet new people. I don’t build anything lasting. My relationship with Georgie is still solid, but even that breathes easier when we’re in Bali. Somehow, when we’re away, we sync. We become teammates again. Life becomes a duet instead of a solo act punctuated by chore charts and minor misfires.

Maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe Melbourne, for all its comfort and familiarity, holds too much of my past. Failures, disappointments, griefs I never quite aired out. Maybe the soil here remembers what I try to forget. Or maybe it’s just the rhythm of the place that jars against my own.

But I don’t want to live like this—caught in a loop of quiet unrest, handing over the baton to a version of myself I no longer wish to serve. I want to be the conductor. I want to choose the tempo. I want to lean into the warm harmonies, not just brace for the dissonance. Because this life—this very one—is good. I can feel it. Underneath the static, it’s all still here. The health. The love. The purpose. The music.

So here’s my challenge. To override the Melbourne Code. To reclaim my own rhythm, even here. Especially here. And to stop waiting for the next plane ticket to feel like myself again.