Byron Bay, in rain and in head

Walking towards the beach from Byron Bay's lighthouse

January 2024. The rain had already soaked through my clothes as I trudged to Arpita’s place in the early morning, probably around 7am. The trams weren't operating from the usual 5am due to public holidays if I remember correctly. Also, it wasn’t just the rain; my mind was drenched too, heavy with thoughts I couldn’t shake. This trip to Byron Bay with friends — Arpita, Prathap and Aditya — was meant to be a break, a chance to breathe outside of the Gold Coast bubble. But, the weight inside doesn’t always lift when we change our surroundings.

We met at the decided location, near the GCUH station and immediately hopped on a tram to the Broadbeach South tram station. We then waited a bit before getting on the bus towards Tweed Heads. We got off near the Gold Coast airport, where we grabbed a quick breakfast at Subway, but my thoughts were still elsewhere, drifting in that nebulous space where plans and reality blur. We realized we were waiting at the wrong bus stop, a rookie mistake, but the real kicker came when we learned the bus was a private one, far more expensive than we’d budgeted for. At that moment, the whole trip felt like it was slipping into chaos, but then again, chaos has a funny way of forcing you to adapt.

We booked a cab instead, cheaper by the head and faster to boot. I sat quietly as we left the city behind, the landscape shifting from urban sprawl to the expansive, empty green spaces that stretched for miles. It was the first time I’d really seen this part of Australia, having spent most of my time within the familiar bounds of the Gold Coast. I stared out the window, the rolling hills and endless fields acting like a mirror, similar to the quiet emptiness I felt inside. I don’t remember seeing a single person, just cars on the highway, and I found that strange, almost eerie — beautiful, but lonely.

Cape Byron Lighthouse

When we finally arrived at Byron Bay, the sun had broken through the clouds. It wasn’t the unrelenting brightness of a summer day, though; the sky was a patchwork of blue and gray, a strange in-between that suited my mood. We made our way to the Cape Byron Lighthouse, the gleaming white tower standing tall at the edge of the cliffs, where the land meets the Pacific. Inside, there was a small museum — an understated space that told the story of the lighthouse and the mariners it had once guided through dangerous waters. Lighthouses are timeless, and in that moment, I felt a strange kinship with it. Just as the lighthouse stands watch over the endless sea, I felt like I was standing on the edge of something vast — my thoughts rolling in and out like the waves below, searching for direction. But like the mariners of old, it wasn’t the land or sea that felt treacherous; it was everything else swirling in my head.

Getting down from the lighthouse

We spent the next few hours on the beach, which remains the clearest memory from the trip. Time slipped away as we sat there, watching the ocean, occasionally talking, mostly just being. There was something about the waves — how they moved with purpose, always in motion, always coming back. The beach was our sanctuary, a temporary escape from everything else. For a while, I felt present, untethered from the noise in my mind, even if just for a moment. Then the rain came back, heavier this time, pushing us back to reality.

Arpita sitting by the rocky shore

Back at the visitor information center, soaked through again, we scrambled to figure out how we were getting back to the Gold Coast. There was no transport in sight, and the day had started to fray at the edges. No buses, no public options, nothing but us and the rain. Eventually, we got creative — booking a cab to the nearest Woolworths and piecing together our return journey with whatever options we could find. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked, and somehow, that made the day feel complete. A trip rarely goes as planned, and this one was no exception.

But beyond the rain, the cab rides, and the scrambling for transport, there was something about the landscape of Byron Bay that stayed with me. It was beyond the physical beauty — the cliffs, the waves, the rolling hills. It was the vastness, the emptiness. As we left the town behind, heading back to the Gold Coast, I kept thinking about how this place had made me feel both small and free. The beauty around me couldn’t quiet the noise in my head. This trip didn’t change anything inside me, not in the way I had hoped it might. In fact, it made things worse in some ways, forcing me to sit with my thoughts in the middle of all that emptiness. But there was something important about that discomfort.

As we drove away, watching the hills fade into the distance, I realized something. Trips like this don’t offer neat resolutions or magical transformations. They give you the time and space to think, to feel, and to face the things running through your head. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Through a historical lens. Byron Bay carries the weight of history, from its indigenous roots with the Arakwal people to its European discovery by Captain James Cook in 1770. The Cape Byron Lighthouse, built in 1901, has guided mariners for over a century, protecting them from the treacherous reefs that dot the coastline. It’s a place where the past and present merge, where the land tells stories of survival, guidance, and, like my own journey, moments of uncertainty. I thought about the (Bundjalung) Nation, who lived off this land long before it became a backpacker’s paradise, and how their relationship with this space was so different from ours. For them, it was a home, a meeting place. And here we were, just passing through, hoping to find something we weren't even sure we were looking for.

Byron Bay didn’t fix anything, nor did I expect it to. As we left the lighthouse and the beach behind, I realized that this trip wasn’t about solving problems or finding clarity. It was about recognizing the storm inside me and knowing that, like the ocean, it would continue to ebb and flow. Byron Bay was just a moment to reflect. And that, for now, was enough.