I was never a girl who thought too much about my wedding day. My father, god rest his soul, has always been more interested in giving my sister and I advanced spelling tests from the back of the World Book Dictionary than talking to us about marriage. I don’t remember him even once telling me I had to find a good husband to settle down. Education. A career. Financial independence. Those were the things my parents taught us were important. Our kitchen table was rich with heated debates about politics and religion. My dad would throw a controversial comment into the middle of the room like he was throwing burly to the sharks. My sister and I never failed to take the bait. Conversations about settling down or being a good Greek girl? Non-existent.
This was, I learned, unusual in our community.
One of my first clues was when I started hanging out with Greek-Australians my own age at university. A then-boyfriend once told me off for the amount of time I spent talking to the boys about politics. Why couldn’t I talk to the girls about girl stuff? Did he mean shoes and clothes and make up? Yes, it turns out he did. I had so many questions. Is that really what he thought girls talked about? How does one feign interest in mediocre footwear? Why was my discussion of politics threatening to him? When he finally broke it off, it surprised no-one, except me.
Growing up, my concerns were about how I could make an impact on the world, not with who I would fall in love with.
Growing up, my concerns were about how I could make an impact on the world, not with who I would fall in love with. So by the time I reached my mid-20s, fresh off yet another major break-up with a guy who was utterly wrong for me, I was shocked to find that it mattered more than I expected. Relationship status was incredibly important in my social circles. I felt in danger of getting left behind. I felt broken, unwanted, and invisible. I felt like I had failed.
I ended up on that shelf for 12 long years. Between the ages of 26 and 38, I was alone. (Not celibate, but alone nonetheless). While those around me were dating, getting married and making babies, I was struggling for meaning. My status confused those around me, and their pointed questions left me feeling sad and ashamed.
Vicki in her 30's performing in an impro show called Time Lord. Source: Supplied
What the heck is wrong with me, I asked my dad once. His answer: nothing. I didn’t need any man to take care of me, he said. If I wanted a baby, he and mum would pay for IVF. When an acquaintance of his at the kafenio he frequented asked him if he’d married me off yet, my dad’s laconic response was “she’s perfectly capable of marrying for herself”.
My dad and I agreed on very little, so I never thought I’d say this - but I should have listened to him.
The 12 years I spent on my own were painful and confusing, not the least because of how profoundly different I felt they made me from my peers. Ultimately though they gave me the freedom to answer the only questions that really mattered: who was I and what did I want? Without realising it, that lonely decade became a slow reclamation. Free of obligation to anyone but myself, I searched for myself outside of expectation, inch by inch discovering who I was.
The 12 years I spent on my own were painful and confusing, not the least because of how profoundly different I felt they made me from my peers.
My first discovery was that I was born to be a writer. On one lazy, pyjama-clad weekend at my friend Christina’s house, somewhere in between the wine and chips and chocolate and hours of conversation, I realised I wanted to write. I wanted to tell stories. The rightness of it burned in my heart. That one weekend changed my life.
After that, the discoveries came thick and fast. I fell in love with improvisational theatre. I found my inner eco-warrior and re-discovered my passion for nature. I embraced my voice and decided to no longer tolerate those who wanted to shame me for it. I discovered there was real power in the sisterhood. I made my peace with the fact that I don’t care about shoes. I accepted the fact that I do care about politics. I travelled and fell in love with places and explored. And I discovered that I’m unapologetically feminist. Marrying either of the conservative boys I dated in my early 20s would have been a disaster for them and me.
In the end, this unasked-for decade of independence gave me a freedom I desperately needed.
Now in my late 40s, with a five-year-old daughter, teenage step kids and a husband who deeply gets me, I’m grateful for the time I spent alone. I’m grateful for my dad. I’m grateful that I didn’t fit in.
By not fitting in with the crowd, I learned to fit in perfectly with myself.
