We spent several months in Australia in the 1980s as a family—Larry, my husband; Jason, our eldest, ten; Tonya, our adopted Korean daughter, seven; and Jennifer, our youngest, five. The trip was meant to be a chance to reconnect and reestablish our life together. What we found instead was a mosaic of experiences that taught each of us something different about the world and ourselves.
Preparing to leave was not simple. Jennifer had developed shingles at age five. Doctors told us it would be impossible to heal fully before our departure, but we pursued a holistic route alongside conventional care. High doses of vitamin C and visits to a holistic doctor changed the course of her recovery. I remember carrying her into that first appointment and watching her walk out. Ten days later she walked into the clinic and ran out—the open sores on her shoulder had visibly closed and the redness was subsiding. Whether by luck, faith, or medicine, she was well enough to travel, and her resilience set the tone for the trip.
Australia in the 1980s still carried the cadence of an earlier time; many places felt like they were living in the 1950s while the rest of the world pushed forward. We traveled mainly along the east coast, moving between towns and cities, beaches and hinterland. Jason, at ten, was captivated by the environment—the water, the fish, the way local people engaged with the sea. He would spend hours watching tides, sketching fish, asking fishermen questions. His curiosity became an education in marine life and local ecology, and he returned home with a sharper sense of how fragile and interconnected ecosystems are.
Tonya surprised us all. At seven she devoured books and absorbed complex ideas like a sponge. One of the series she read—on alternative health and spiritual ideas—sparked long, meaningful conversations. I found myself speaking with her on an almost adult level; we could discuss concepts and authors she enjoyed, and she would respond with insights that were beyond her years. Watching her read and think gave me a glimpse of how adoption and love were shaping a confident, thoughtful child.
Larry engaged with the trip differently. He was taken by the lifestyle and the people—the relaxed pace, the friendliness, the way communities functioned. He immersed himself in local routines and conversations, steady and observant. For him the trip was less about sights and more about living in a place for a while, absorbing its rhythm.
For me, one relationship during the trip opened a new chapter. I met a man who was deeply spiritual and unconventional in his perceptions—he could describe auras, felt energies in a way that sounded foreign at first, and we shared experiences that felt mystical: a profound sense when our hands touched, a kind of remote communication that left both of us thoughtful. He became a friend and teacher in small, intense ways. That friendship endured after we returned to the United States; he visited later. It wasn’t a reunion that rekindled something romantic—it was a moment of separation, an acknowledgment that our paths were different. Both of us learned from the connection and then let it rest.
The trip ultimately changed our family in quiet, lasting ways. It exposed us to new ideas, healing approaches, spiritual perspectives, and the simple yet powerful lessons of living together in an unfamiliar setting. The experience strained and shifted relationships—Larry and I ultimately separated on mutual grounds—but we did so with respect and the shared commitment to our children’s well-being. We remained friends and co-parents, loving and caring for Jason, Tonya, and Jennifer together despite living separate lives.
Looking back, that east-coast Australian summer was less a holiday and more a crucible: it healed in some ways, challenged in others, and provided a rare stretch of time when each of us could learn, grow, and choose how to move forward.
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