Once upon a time (circa 2010), I was a theatre nurse - or, as the medically-minded call it, a ‘scrub/scout.’ And as the unhinged and sarcastic call it? A scrubber. Affectionate term, I swear. I worked in my hometown of Newcastle, NSW, elbow-deep in surgeries, donning hot-as-hell sterile gowns and getting concussed by theatre lights on the daily.

The job? Repetitive. Soul-numbing. Full of egos so inflated they needed their own theatre lists. Surgeons? Mostly insufferable. Nurses? Sometimes fabulous, sometimes feral. The work? Counting things. Over and over. If I had to count to ten one more time, I was going to stage my own dramatic exit (and I did).

Somewhere between being stabbed with scalpels and slowly morphing into a bitter cow, I looked up during yet another C-section and realised the midwives looked... semi-content. Functional. Possibly fulfilled. I watched them long enough to realise: I needed out. So I jumped ship and retrained.

Midwifery was a breath of fresh, amniotic-fluid-scented air. Yes, there were challenges, but at least the patients weren’t unconscious, and the emotional connection made it all feel worthwhile. Turns out, I had a secret love for postnatal care - helping new parents gain confidence without screaming into the void. Most of the time.

As for birth suite? Nah. Hard pass. Watching what should be a natural process turned into a fear-fuelled intervention-fest broke my heart. Too many forceps, too many caesareans, too many people in positions of power forgetting that women's bodies aren't ticking time bombs. So I do what I can - and avoid that room like it’s on fire.

After finishing my midwifery training in 2018, I worked in a Big Shiny Hospital™ where I was regularly assigned an unsafe number of patients by a government that wouldn't recognise a healthcare crisis if it bit them in the arse. I left every day feeling like a crap version of myself. I wasn’t giving good care - I was just surviving it.

Enter: agency life. In 2021, I ditched the permanent gig for a nomadic contract lifestyle. Travel paid. Accom sorted. Freedom activated. My first contract was in Derby, WA - a beautiful, brutal introduction to the realities of rural healthcare and the deep inequalities facing our indigenous communities. From there, I went rogue:

• 🏞️ Kununurra, WA: Absolute stunner. A lifestyle dream. Every day looked like a tourism campaign for Outback Nirvana. I spent my days working and my evenings in a floaty haze of red dirt, river sunsets, and mangoes. If it weren’t so remote (and priced like a private island), I’d have pitched a tent and called it forever.

• 🔥 Karratha, WA: Close to Karijini and Ningaloo. Epic. I picked it purely for its proximity to bucket-list locations - and thank god I did, because the national park slapped me with awe and the reef made me briefly consider becoming a marine biologist (until I remembered I hate cold water and studying). Work was fine, nature was better.

• 🐊 Katherine, NT: A little rough, but Kakadu healed my soul. This town had bite - and not just the crocs. But drive an hour out and BAM: soul restoration. I swam in gorges, hiked through ancient rock art, and genuinely forgot about whatever mess was happening on shift. 10/10 would emotionally recover there again.

• 🇮🇩 Bali (holiday detour #1): A whirlwind booze-and-bonding trip with my son. We dodged street vendors, danced on tables, hit up a waterfall and day spa for balance, and drank like hydration was a concept for other people. 10/10. Would debauch again.

• 🍷 Townsville, QLD: Total culture shock after the outback. After years in dusty remote towns, Townsville felt like stepping into Paris. There were cafes! Shops! People in shoes! I adjusted quickly (with the help of a wine-loving midwife soulmate), and we turned that city into our playground. Honourable mention to Magnetic Island, which now shares top billing on my list of favourite islands.

• 🥜 Kingaroy, QLD: Small town, big chaos. The air always smelled like snack food and the pubs never saw me coming. My Kiwi midwife partner-in-crime and I left a trail of good times, bad hangovers, and emotional damage (mostly to ourselves). Warning: not safe for peanut allergies or quiet nights in.

• 💀 Mexico (holiday detour #2): Took a break from babies to go dance with skeletons. The colour, the chaos, the tequila... I honestly felt spiritually aligned with the whole event. If Mexico’s calling during Day of the Dead, answer. Just be warned: your pants and your perspective may never fit the same again.

• 🌴 Cairns, QLD: Favourite place of all. Tropical, vibrant, sweaty, and completely intoxicating. I fell head over heels - for the landscape, the reef, the vibe, all of it. Eventually, this is where I’ll unpack the suitcase and grow old disgracefully near my kids. For now, I’m still wandering - but Cairns is calling.

• 🙃 Ayr, QLD: Bit of a dud. But we move. Not every stop can be a banger. I had a few laughs, a few long shifts, and a strong craving to be elsewhere. Let’s call it character-building and never speak of it again.

• 🐑 Burnie, TAS: Finally landed a contract after multiple failed attempts. I’d been ghosted by Tassie contracts twice before, so when the stars finally aligned, I packed up my boots and got my arse across Bass Strait. The wild coastlines, moody forests, and unhinged weather are very on brand for me. Burnie is home base for now - but as always, I’ve got one foot out the metaphorical door.

• 🇱🇰 Sri Lanka (holiday detour #3): Eleven days in Sri Lanka with my mum - equal parts temples, tipples, and tender chaos. The people were beautiful, the mountains were a terraced wonderland, and the coastline was pure calm. A little bit shabby, a little bit opulent, and enough Buddhas to form a large army.

This blog is where I spill my guts - the good, the grim, and the deeply inappropriate. Some will laugh. Some will clutch their pearls. I don’t care. I’m not here to inspire you - I’m here to shamelessly document the wild, beautifully reckless life I built while everyone else was still making excuses. This isn’t a guidebook. It’s a highlight reel. I did the thing most people only talk about over drinks and never follow through on - and now I get to write about it.

Call it storytelling if you want. I call it an unapologetic archive of misadventure, freedom, and the kind of chaos you only get when you finally stop giving your energy to all the wrong things. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine - and it’s bloody brilliant.

And now? I’m just showing it off in blog form.

So buckle up. It’s going to be a beautiful mess.