Most of us go to bed dreaming of greener grass. That could be literal—maybe your backyard is looking like a scene out of a post-apocalyptic Western—or metaphorical, meaning you want something different, shinier, sexier. A new job, a new town, a new life. You name it.
We like to believe that somewhere, just out of reach, is a better version of the life we’re living. One with cooler weather, better cafes, more excitement, and less of whatever existential rut we’re currently in. It’s comforting. It’s motivating. And honestly, it’s often a complete illusion.
Being on holiday in a country is wildly different from actually living there
I’ve lived in several countries so far, and traveled to many more. (No, this is not a flex—okay
maybe a tiny one.) One of the first things I realized is this: being on holiday in a country is
wildly different from actually living there. I know, groundbreaking stuff. But it’s worth
repeating, because the travel version of a place is like a filtered Instagram story. You’re high
on sunshine, Aperol, and the fact that you don’t have to answer emails. Everything is
charming and exotic when you’re not responsible for setting up a broadband connection or
finding a decent dentist.
And that dreamy holiday feeling? We want it to last forever. So we fantasize: “What if I lived
here permanently?” Cue the Pinterest boards and Zillow searches.
But here’s where the patchy grass reality sets in.
Timing Is Everything
The other, more important thing I’ve come to realize is this: the time of your life you lived in a
place matters just as much as the place itself. Nostalgia is a bit of a scam artist. It packages an era of your life, shrink-wraps it in golden light, and sells it back to you at a premium—conveniently forgetting to include the stressful job, the dodgy apartment, or the recurring existential dread you felt in your twenties.
Back then, I didn’t even have a patch of grass. Not even a window box. Just dreams
I have vivid memories of staying in Spain—partying until sunrise, lying on the beach until sundown, repeat. Of course I want to relive those moments. In fact, I’ve caught myself daydreaming about moving back to Spain. I mean, why not recreate the magic? But then I think: would I want to move my two small children and wife to a tiny apartment in the middle of a noisy town square? Would I give up the quiet, small-town life we’ve built—where my kids can run around in a yard, the neighbors wave at you, and the biggest threat is running out of milk? Probably not. Even if the grass here is patchy. It’s our patchy. And then there’s London—my early twenties playground. Waking up at 6am to jump on the Tube, grabbing a coffee from some overpriced café, feeling like a protagonist in a gritty Netflix drama. The hustle. The anonymity. The adventure.
I do miss that feeling. But back then, I didn’t even have a patch of grass. Not even a window
box. Just dreams, tube delays, and occasional rat sightings.
It’s Not the Place, It’s the Season of Life
We often romanticize other places or paths in life not because they’re better, but because they belong to a different season. You weren’t freer because you lived in Barcelona. You were freer because you were twenty-three and untethered. You weren’t happier in London because the city had magic dust. You were happier because you were figuring yourself out in real time, without a nappy bag on your shoulder. This is what psychology calls the “rosy retrospection bias.” It’s the tendency to remember the past as being better than it actually was. Our brains smooth out the rough edges, delete the boring Tuesdays, and highlight the sunsets, the kisses, the first sips of sangria. It’s like our memories get auto-edited into a holiday montage. But that’s not truth—it’s selective memory. Philosophers like Alain de Botton and Seneca would nod wisely here. Seneca warned us about the futile chase for happiness through changing our location. “You must change your soul,” he said, “not the climate.” Which is very poetic and annoying, because he’s right.
The Hedonic Treadmill and Why We’re Never Satisfied
Let’s dive into a little pop-psychology rabbit hole: the hedonic treadmill. This theory suggests
that no matter how much external change you experience—new job, new house, new
country—you’ll eventually return to your baseline level of happiness. It’s the emotional
equivalent of spinning your wheels.
We buy a fancy coffee machine, and for a week we feel like kings. Then it becomes part of
the scenery. We move to a trendy suburb, and suddenly the old neighborhood starts to feel
“authentic” and “charming” in retrospect. We’re wired to adapt. And that’s great for survival,
but terrible for long-term contentment.
So maybe the question isn’t: “Where is the greener grass?”
Maybe it’s: “Why do I keep thinking greener grass will fix my brown spots?”
Comparison Is a Thief (With Great Wi-Fi)
We live in a world designed to make us feel like someone else is doing life better. Instagram,
LinkedIn, lifestyle blogs—they’re all digital windows into someone else’s perfectly curated
backyard. And of course, their grass looks greener. It’s had a Lightroom filter applied to it.
But we don’t see the irrigation system underneath. The sleepless nights. The therapy
sessions. The chronic doubt. All we see is the illusion of greener, brighter, more fun grass.
We risk becoming visitors in our own lives. Never fully home. Never fully present
It’s not wrong to want more. Ambition is good. But if we’re always comparing, always
fantasizing about somewhere else, we risk becoming visitors in our own lives. Never fully
home. Never fully present.
What If You’re Already Standing in the Garden?
Here’s the twist: maybe your current grass isn’t broken. Maybe it’s just not Instagram-worthy.
Maybe it needs a little attention. A few patches of love. A weekend’s worth of sweat equity
and a trip to Bunnings.
What if, instead of longing for the excitement of big city life, I added more excitement to the
quiet suburb I live in? What if, instead of dreaming about beach parties, I threw a backyard
BBQ with too much sangria and bad Spotify playlists?
Maybe we can make our backyard a collage of all the places we’ve loved.
Some paving stones to remind us of concrete city life and cafés on corners.
A sandpit in the corner for the kids to play—evoking those lazy beach days.
Some fake turf for a game of backyard footy (because let’s be real, real grass is a pain to
maintain).
And yes, a few stubborn brown patches—because life isn’t perfect, and neither are lawns.
Questions Worth Asking
So before you jump fences, ask yourself:
● Am I craving a place, or am I craving a feeling?
● Would I want that same life with the same responsibilities I have now?
● Is it possible I’m misremembering the past?
● What small changes can I make where I am, before looking elsewhere?
Sometimes we don’t need a new backyard. We just need new eyes.
Brown Grass, Big Lessons
The truth is, no patch of grass is fully green all the time. Life comes with dry seasons,
overwatered sections, and those weird weeds that just won’t go away. But it’s still
yours—and there’s a strange, quiet joy in embracing that.
From a chic city café, watching my kids fling sand into each other’s hair
So here I am. Sitting on a slightly wobbly deck chair, sipping a coffee that’s definitely not
from a chic city café, watching my kids fling sand into each other’s hair, and thinking: this is
the life I used to dream about. Maybe not the exact location, but the feeling.
And maybe that’s enough green for now.
