How I Handled the Darkest Moment in My Life | by Hening Suryandari | Aug, 2025

On starting over in a new land, facing deep loneliness, and learning how to befriend myself again.

A New Country, A New Life — and an Unexpected Kind of Silence

I thought moving to Perth would feel like a fresh beginning. A reset.

A new chapter in a peaceful, developed country — with clean air, kind people, a slower pace, and beautiful skies.

And in many ways, it was.

But what no one told me — and what no brochure, blog, or migration consultant ever says — is that starting over can also break you.

Not in one loud crash, but in a slow, quiet unravelling.

Loneliness Doesn’t Announce Itself. It Arrives Quietly.

In the beginning, I kept myself busy.

Unpacking. Organising. Cooking meals, accompanying my husband, learning the roads, and smiling through small talk.

But something started to sink in, and it fell deep.

It was the kind of loneliness that didn’t look like sadness from the outside — it was invisible. I missed the messy noise of my old life. The easy conversations. The language I didn’t have to translate. The friends who understood me without lengthy explanations. The cheap massages and familiar food. Even the chaos of Jakarta traffic started to feel like a strange comfort in memory.

Perth was beautiful.

But beauty means little when your soul is starving for connection.

I Didn’t Recognise Myself Anymore

There were days I didn’t leave the house.

Not because I was lazy — but because I didn’t want to face the world.

I felt like a stranger in my skin.

A capable woman who suddenly didn’t feel capable anymore.

Even the simplest things — asking for help, making appointments, finding the right words in English — became overwhelming.

I felt like I had lost the version of myself I had worked so hard to become.

And in her place was someone quiet, unsure, and invisible.

I cried alone some mornings. Sometimes for no apparent reason. Sometimes, because the silence of the day felt too loud.

I missed the sound of my language. I missed my friends. I missed the recognition.

One Small Ritual That Saved Me

But something shifted when I stopped trying to “fix” everything.

Instead of forcing myself to be happy, I let myself be honest.

I started with one small ritual: a morning walk.

At first, I would go to Hyde Park — a beautiful green space nestled just north of Perth’s city centre. It’s one of those rare places that feels timeless — a sanctuary in the middle of suburban calm. Two lakes sit quietly in the centre, surrounded by grand old plane trees whose branches arch overhead like gentle arms reaching out to hold you.

I didn’t know it then, but Hyde Park would become my quiet companion through my early days of adjustment. It’s where I began to meet myself again.

Each season offered a different kind of comfort.

In autumn, the leaves turned golden and copper, floating down like slow rain as I walked beneath them. Crunchy leaves littered the ground, curled leaves, and I found myself slowing down to step on them — just for the satisfying crackle.

In winter, the air was crisp and still. The trees stood bare but firm, their skeletons reaching into the grey sky. On misty mornings, a soft fog would curl around the ponds like a blanket. I’d wrap my scarf tighter, tuck my hands in my pockets, and keep walking, letting the chill clear my mind.

And when spring arrived, the park came back to life. Buds opened, trees turned green again, and the sunlight danced on the surface of the lake. I’d pause at my favourite bench, just to watch the ducks and black swans gliding slowly across the water — unbothered, graceful, content. Something was healing in their quiet confidence, their presence.

Sometimes I’d pass young mothers with strollers, joggers, or elderly couples walking hand in hand. But most days, I walked alone — not in loneliness, but in solitude.

Just 20 minutes. No phone. No pressure.

I wasn’t trying to achieve anything. I just needed to feel safe in my own body again.

Slowly, I started to feel myself returning. My breath became steadier. My thoughts became gentler.

Some mornings, my husband would come along. We wouldn’t talk much — just walk side by side, our hands brushing. That small act of being present together often said more than words.

Hyde Park wasn’t just a park to me.

It became my silent witness — a space where I could simply be.

Where my grief, confusion, and hope could stretch out under the open sky.

Finding Myself Again, Gently

I began doing other small things that made me feel alive:

Cooking Indonesian dishes from memory. Baking. Tending to the red geranium on our balcony. Writing a little — even just a paragraph. Telling my husband how I felt, without hiding behind “I’m OK.”

I learned to stop romanticising strength.

Being strong isn’t about pretending you’re fine. It’s about allowing yourself to feel the hard things — and still finding your way forward.

I realised I didn’t have to be the version of myself I used to be.

I could become someone new — someone softer, slower, but more grounded. Someone who knows that sadness doesn’t last forever, and that even in foreign soil, you can bloom again.

If You’re in a Dark Place, Let Me Tell You This

If you’re in your version of that dark place — a new country, a new city, or simply a new season of life where everything feels unfamiliar — I want you to know you’re not weak.

You’re just adjusting. And it takes time.

It’s OK to feel lost. It’s OK to grieve what you left behind.

It doesn’t mean you made the wrong decision — it means you’re human.

Eventually, the silence will soften. The loneliness will lift.

And you’ll hear your voice again — clearer, braver, wiser.

Mine came back, quietly, in the scent of garlic sizzling in the pan.

In my husband’s laughter at the dinner table.

In the stories I wrote, one by one.

And in the morning walks that reminded me: I’m still here.

I Didn’t Just Survive. I Found Myself.

Moving to Perth wasn’t just about relocating.

It was about facing a version of myself stripped bare — without titles, roles, or familiar surroundings.

And in that bareness, I learned how to build again.

Gently. Honestly. From the inside out.

This time was the darkest moment in my life — and also, strangely, the most honest one.

Because sometimes, it’s in the dark that we finally see what truly matters.

And today, I can say this with quiet confidence:

I didn’t just survive.

I found myself.