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.

Failure isn’t the opposite of success—it’s part of it. Each misstep, each setback, is a step forward, even when it doesn’t feel like it. The tiny, invisible improvements you make with every attempt are building something extraordinary. So if you’re afraid to start because you might fail, do it anyway. Fail. Get back up. And trust the process, knowing that every stumble is bringing you closer to where you want to be.

In Amarillo, nothing felt familiar—not the suburban streets, not the orderly rows of houses, and certainly not the buildings stacked atop each other like bales of hay in the city’s heart. I had come from a place where life sprawled outward—fields stretching to the horizon, barefoot days spent chasing fireflies, and people who spoke in the rhythm of cicadas. Here, everything rose up, as if the world were trying to press me into the ground.

I didn’t fit. My clothes, my accent, even my wiry frame marked me as different. I was the redneck farm girl who didn’t understand why sidewalks replaced dirt paths or why the sky seemed smaller here. At night, the shadows cast by streetlights through the canopy bed’s frilly lace convinced me that monsters lay in wait. By day, those same monsters followed me into classrooms where my sharp mind didn’t help me make friends, only made me more of an outsider.

The typewriter became my sanctuary. Its keys were solid and predictable, a grounding rhythm I could control in a world that felt like a storm. When I pressed down, the letters landed on paper in neat, orderly lines, as if it were possible to make sense of things after all.