Why the F*ck Do You Want to Go to India?

It was my day off in Nhulunbuy.

I was in a good rhythm, gym in the mornings, a calm routine.

Everything was close in that remote little town.

Ten minutes on foot and you could get anywhere.

I decided to give my dad a call.

We only spoke maybe once a month. Sometimes less.

He answered:

“Hey mate, how are you?”

“Yeah good. You?”

“Yeah good… except…”

Except what?

“I was talking to your mother,” he said. “She told me you want to go to India?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s where I want to go.”

He didn’t take it well.

“Why the fuck would you want to go there? Why don’t you go to fucking Switzerland or something? Go somewhere better!”

He was losing it.

“It’s dangerous! What are you thinking? Your mother and I don’t sleep because of you. We’re up all night thinking about you!”

He kept going. He needed to get it out.

I let him speak, then calmly replied:

“Listen… you’re going to have to get used to it. This is what I have to do.

You need to find a way to process that because I’m 32 years old. And I’m not stopping.”

This is what Greek parents are like.

They think you’re 12 years old forever.

And to be honest, my parents had a habit of pulling this sort of thing on me over the years.

One day, in the middle of another argument, my dad blurted out:

“You know it’s because we’re Greek.”

That made me even more pissed off.

“Yes… I know. Yes,” I shot back.

To be fair, I wasn’t living a normal life.

I’d walked away from secure jobs; the kind others would’ve settled into.

I’d followed my heart more than my head.

And I knew they’d never fully understand that.

There’s no manual for how to parent a child like me.

Someone who doesn’t walk the expected path.

We talked a little longer.

Then we hung up.

He was just venting.

I absorbed it, let it pass.

It wasn’t really about me.

When I left those jobs, both my parents told me they were disappointed in me.

And now, it was happening again.

Another test.

Another wave.

So be it.

If my dad couldn’t understand, then he’d have to meet me where I was.

Because I wasn’t going to live as some version of myself that wasn’t real.

So it was written.