If this was a hundred years ago, my daughter and I would probably be dead right now.

But by some cosmic chance, we exist in an era of private hospitals, sterilised medical equipment, highly trained nurses and anaesthesiologists and obstetricians—experts who, in 2018, nonetheless still use the antiquated term ‘geriatric’ for women like me, a forty-one-year-old who built an excellent career, a solid marriage, and an actual sense of self before deciding to have her first baby. Someone lucky enough to choose what she does with her body, and when. Someone who—despite a flawless pregnancy, perfect health, and almost unbearable excitement to meet the strong girl kick-kick-kicking inside her—can only be grateful we’re both here. It’s a miracle, really.

If you ask any writer, I suspect they will most likely tell you that we as humans convey information by means of story. If you ask any moral philosopher, they will most likely tell you the same thing. Work on narrative extends even further to a host of academic disciplines.[1] A broad overview of theoretical physics will tell you the story of the universe. Modern psychology hinges on the notion of the ‘storied nature of human conduct.’[2] Current AI research finds much of its present work determined by narrative.[3] Indeed, there are few professions that cast aside the relevance of story—though finance brokers, corporate attorneys, and tech billionaires might tell a different… er… story. As important as ‘narrative’ has become both academically and professionally since the work of Paul Ricœur in the mid-20th century, that same century invoked a wave of focus on scientific reason where critical analysis superseded storytelling and narrative was viewed as both trivial and infantile in a way that continues well into the 21st. [4] Thus, despite story’s prevalence in the work of individual lives, society’s trajectory, and the conveyance of history and research, as a matter of societal importance it is swept aside. And like all things associated with children, no kind of story is swept aside more dismissively than the fairy tale.

In two days, as I write this, I’m getting on a plane to visit Japan for the first time since the pandemic began. I’m drowning in deadlines and haven’t started to pack, but all I seem to be able to do is rewatch the second season of Good Omens. Two years and a few months ago, I was getting ready to relocate from Sydney to Brisbane to start a PhD. That time, my binge re-read was The Lord of the Rings. A year and a bit before that (give or take), when I was getting ready to move to Japan to teach English, I rewatched every episode of every season of Lucifer, start to finish.

Each of these moments were exciting, but nerve-wracking. Right now, I’m worried about how different post-pandemic Japan might be compared to when I was living there. I left in a hurry in mid-2020 and that part of my life feels unfinished. What will it be like to be back?