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“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.” ~ David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas
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I always used to think that was me—the more I travelled, the more I would find parts of myself that were probably hidden, even from myself.

And to a large extent, that’s been true. Traveling has allowed me to come into my own as a person.

But recently, something happened that took me by surprise.

Let me back up: I recently spent a month in Europe. This was nothing new as I’ve been to Europe seven or eight times over the past seven or eight years. But this time was different. There was a strange sense of yearning, of excitement, that hadn’t ever been there before.

Why, you ask?

Well, turns out, you can be an inveterate traveller for whom applying and getting visas is part of your usual process, but last year—and 57 countries later—when I applied for yet another Schengen visa, I got rejected. And not just once, but twice. Back-to-back. By two different embassies.

To say I was crushed is a classic understatement. But not in the “Oh my God! I won’t be able to travel to France this year!” kind of way. But in the “How can a regular traveler like me get rejected?” way. I know the ins and outs of the visa application process to a T.

So, how did this happen?

A year later, I still have no clue why both the Swiss and French embassies rejected me. And I know equally less why the same Swiss embassy gave me a much longer-than-asked-for visa this year.

But the rejections did a number on me. Travel isn’t just a hobby for me—it’s a rhythm, a pulse. Being told no felt personal, like someone had quietly taken away a piece of who I am. Don’t cry too much for me though; in the year I wasn’t able to travel back to Europe, I travelled to seven other countries. Yes, seven! But still, the Schengen rejection was tough.

So when the no turned to a yes from the same embassy this year, I felt…relieved. It wasn’t about adding another stamp to my passport or hitting country number 58. (In fact, I travelled for a month to a country that I had already been to twice before.) No, it was about reclaiming something that had felt momentarily lost: my freedom. My movement. My sense of self.

All amped up, I finally landed in Europe, met an old friend after a decade, and did the whole European thing of wandering through cobblestone streets, soaking up the art, architecture, music, pizza, wine, and gelato. Basically doing all the little things that remind me why I travel in the first place.

And I loved every second of it.

But then, something unexpected happened. As much as I loved being there (the friends, the frenetic socializing, the eight cities that I visited, the smells, the sounds, the endless pastries), there was this quiet, growing feeling inside me: I was equally looking forward to coming back home.

And that surprised me.

As someone who has never counted down the days to return, as someone who always plans the next trip before the current one is even over, this time something felt different. Coming home didn’t feel like an ending—it felt like a return to something I’d built carefully, quietly, and lovingly.

I was returning to a life that now felt like mine.

And that’s when the realization hit. Maybe that’s what years of movement eventually teach us: that home stops being a location and starts being a feeling. That it’s possible to belong everywhere and still have one place that steadies you.

I think that’s what this trip reminded me of—that the girl who once ran toward airports to find herself has, somewhere along the way, found herself becoming complete in the home she has now built. And it’s one she loves coming back to.

Don’t get me wrong, I already have my upcoming trips in November and December planned. But that feeling of excitement I felt when I returned home was a real full-circle moment for me. It was when adventure and stillness stopped being opposites and started feeling like parts of the same whole.

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