Moving to Australia at just eleven was daunting but taught me lots about myself, writes Aimee Murphy.
IT WAS FEBRUARY 2011, the worst day. Deep breaths and 1,2,3. This was something my dad taught me. I still question whether it works, but to this day I frequently remember the words my dad would say to me.
My last day with him was a turmoil of emotions, one moment marginally exciting, and the next devastatingly dragged and dejected, as I sat on his stairs, evaluating a card he had handed me.
I could tell by his swollen, soggy eyes and his rosy coloured cheeks that he had been crying. He left as I began opening the envelope with trembling hands. I couldn’t hold back the endless tears that slid down my cheeks.