A traveler's soul

A core belief I have is that the world around you (from every person you meet to every place you visit) exists to teach you something about yourself. We don’t just travel to explore or discover something; we travel to transform. Even when you return to the same place year after year, the landscape might remain the same, but your perception, your inner voice, your truth has shifted.

The first time I came to Europe, I was nine years old. My elder sister and I were sopranos in the a choir at an Episcopal church near our home. Our choir director, Mrs. Bird, had organized a nine-day tour through Germany, beginning in Frankfurt. We sang in sistine chapels during services, wandered through Christmas markets to discover sweet treats, explored the ancient Ronneburg Castle, and, to my delight and then disgust, I had my first sip of red wine. I didn’t know it then, but that trip planted something in me: the quiet awe of being somewhere so foreign than the flat landscape of the midwest. It was my first real brush with the feeling of small in order to grow.

Years later, in high school, I was selected as one of fifteen students to participate in an exchange trip to Japan. We traveled through Tokyo, Kyoto, and had a one night stay at the Kusatsu Onsen. I remember the steamy mineral baths and the stillness of the town, how time seemed to slow down. For the second half of the trip, I stayed with Sana, the girl I had hosted earlier that year. Her home was in Kashiwazaki City, a train ride away from the school. Each morning at 5 a.m., we ate oven-baked kirimochi wrapped in seaweed, dipped in soy sauce, and made our way to class in the cold. Bleary-eyed, I often wondered how she did this every day with such quiet discipline.

That trip sparked something deeper. I applied for a scholarship through Youth For Understanding and was selected to go back to Japan, this time for a longer stay. I flew to California for orientation, then on to Kitakyushu, where I met my new host family—an international couple. I’ll admit: I was disappointed when I found out the father was Canadian. I had hoped for full immersion, to disappear into the folds and seams of Japanese life.

My host parents and I struggled to connect. They found my personality too strong, too stubborn. I found their expectations vague and their feedback indirect. In hindsight, I understand now that Japanese culture often favors observation over confrontation. I hadn’t yet developed the ability to read what wasn’t said. I know I left a mark on them, and they left one on me. But it wasn’t the seamless, soul-affirming experience I’d hoped for. They often compared me, sometimes explicitly, to the previous exchange student, who had apparently been a perfect match. I spent much of my time there shrinking under the weight of that invisible standard.

And I was exhausted. The all-girls school I attended was an hour away by train. I slept in libraries, nodded off during assemblies. Once, I was jolted awake during the closing ceremony and ushered onstage to give a speech I hadn’t prepared. I stumbled through it, embarrassed, and thanked the staff as best I could.

To this day I still hold the school director’s kindness as the warmest memory I carried home.

That experience shook my dream of living in Japan. I kept studying the language in university, but the spark that had once ignited my passion for learning and connecting was dimming. Something had shifted. I had seen a version of the life I thought I wanted and it hadn’t fit at all.

Coming to terms with this I rooted myself in my university life and my college town. I spent every summer there getting fully into the small town life’s pace. I learned every nook and discovered every restaurant and befriended many locals crafting a home in this place: thank you for that Bloomington, Indiana. But, travel still continued to call me. After moving to the Czech Republic years later, I found my voice again. This time not in trying to blend in, but in showing up as I was.

I went to Macedonia to visit my friend Meri, who had immigrated to the U.S. with her family years earlier. Her grandmother welcomed me with open arms and hot plates of sarma, minced meat wrapped in tender cabbage rolls, and potpeceni makaroni, a Macadonian style mac and cheese inspired by my love of balkan cheese. I got to see a window into their lives as I met their friends for drinks, played with their children, got my hair styled and was invited for a home-cooked meal. The warmth of that community felt like a balm. I had grown up hearing about missionary trips to “help” countries like Macedonia, but here, I was the one being nourished. The country might not be labeled “first world,” but the zest for life, the generosity, the joy, it was deeply human, deeply grounding.

Later travels through Serbia, Albania, and Ukraine continued that healing. In Belgrade, we danced to live music in restaurants amongst locals sending us drinks just to have us try local taste. In Sarandë, locals helped us find the best seafood spot. I still consider Ukraine to be one of the most special and unique place I ever went to. It was in this beautiful place that I felt the kind of grounded hospitality that only comes from people who have weathered much and still choose warmth.

It was in the warmth of laying on the stones and enjoying the salty air of the seaside in Portorož, Slovenia that my partner and I were able to reconnect. We even brought our cat once, against his will. It’s where we’ve had some of our hardest conversations and breakthroughs where the rhythm of the sea gave us space to understand each other again. We’re a passionate pair. We love hard, and we fight hard. And in that place, something softened.

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Not every place you love will love you the way you imagined. But every place leaves something with you. If you’re willing to notice. I still speak Japanese sometimes, if only to remember the version of me who tried so hard to belong. I haven’t been back. But every city, every misstep, every warm meal from a kind-hearted stranger is a reminder:

You don’t just travel to discover the world.

You travel to remember who you’re becoming.