A quiet kind of freedom

There are big wins you can shout from rooftops. And then there are the quiet victories—no fireworks, just an exhale so deep it resets your nervous system.

Today, I got the call through. After weeks of fiddling with VoIP settings, cracked SIMs, useless apps, and robotic phone menus in a language I don’t speak, I finally spoke to a real human at Centrelink.

And just like that—portability granted. My disability pension will continue, even here in Vietnam. Or any country anywhere in the world. Not for six months. Not for a trial period. For good.

It’s a quiet kind of freedom. One that doesn’t change how I look or how strangers treat me on the street. But inside? Inside, something unclenches.

Because now, I know:

• I don’t have to go back to Australia just to survive.

• I can keep writing, teaching, healing, and building this life—this new life—without checking my bank account in panic at 3am.

• I can rest. Not just sleep, but properly rest.

There’s no dramatic music. No certificate arrives in the mail. No parade. But for someone like me—neurodiverse, over sixty, a foreigner in a place I’m learning to call home—this is monumental.

I still have to watch every đồng. I continue to live with limitations, both internal and external. Is the sword still hanging over my head? It’s been quietly lifted.

There’s a tenderness to that kind of relief. There is a profound sense of gratitude that is indescribable.

So tonight, I won’t post on my blogs. I won’t hashtag a damn thing.

I’ll just sit with a coffee on my balcony, listen to the night sounds of Đà Lạt, and whisper to the dark:

“I get to stay.”