The other night I sat in a bungalow having drinks with three groups of good friends—who I met in three different countries—and I realized that I was the only common link between them. I have made so many lasting friends, brought so many people together, had so many adventures, shared space and stories over and over again. It makes the thought of going back to normal life seem almost impossible.
I’m coming up on eight months of travel, and my heart is full of these people that I met, that I love, that I’m always heartbroken to say goodbye to.
I am leaving Asia, actually following through on my original plan of heading back to Europe, and then starting to think about jobs and homes and stability for the fall—even toying with the idea of maybe going back into a classroom.
He tells me that my heart is not in Houston and that I won’t last long there, but I’m not so sure.
I started this trip to find meaning, and so far what I’ve found is that everything worthwhile comes from people. I’ve had mediocre days on gorgeous beaches and hilarious nights in cockroach infested hostels. I’ve found more spirituality in human kindness than in temples or churches and more culture in tiny wooden shacks than in expensive museums.
I’ve found that my heart is with these people, wherever they are. My heart is spread across the globe, and my home can be wherever I drop my backpack for the night.
So maybe my home will end up back where I started, but I’m contradicting myself now: I don’t think that’s a step backward. Even if nothing else has changed, as I look at the people around me, I know that I have.