I wanted this trip to be about new places, about adventure, about the lightness of movement and discovery. A travel journal, filled with café stops and charming streets, salty sea air and sunsets over unfamiliar horizons. But the truth is, we don’t always get to decide what takes up space in our hearts.

Because here I am, standing at an airport gate, unable to shake the image of a young woman leaning into the man beside her, fragile but determined, taking step after step toward something unknown. And here I am, once again, feeling the weight of a battle I fought nearly a decade ago, a battle I have spent years healing from, releasing, making peace with. Yet, no matter how much time passes, some moments pull me right back.

This journey has been a series of reminders—not of where I’m going, but of where I’ve been. And no matter how much I try to keep this journal lighthearted, the truth insists on being written. Because sometimes, travel isn’t just about places. Sometimes, it’s about what we carry with us, even when we think we’ve left it behind.

What if we all carried our lives in a backpack,
The way weary travelers do,
Waiting in queues for hours
To reunite with loved ones,
Only to leave with a lingering sadness,
After a brief gathering that only partly fills the emptiness
Of a mother grown old,
Aged by her children becoming adults,
Meeting at gate 1F,
Where time is both a journey and a reminder.