LeidaLala

Traveling for me isn't a checklist of "visit 50 countries." It's a way to ask myself questions I'd never answer honestly at home. Why do I get pissed when someone’s ten minutes late in Berlin, but smile when a bus in Nepal shows up two hours late? Why in one culture hugs are normal, but in another they're almost intimate? Why can I go three days without talking to anyone and feel great, but on the fourth start crying from loneliness in a crowded café? These questions don't come in therapy (though they do there too)—they hit me on the move, when you're tired, hungry, lost, in love, scared, or just sitting on a rooftop at 4 AM watching the city wake up.
I crave strong emotions. Not the ones that simmer quietly for years, but the ones that explode and leave burns. Joy that makes your cheeks ache. Sadness that catches your breath. Awe that makes you want to scream. Fear that, once over, lets you know you're still here and can keep going. I don't run from them. I run toward them. Sometimes I pick routes that scare me on purpose: a night hike over a pass, hitchhiking in an unfamiliar country without knowing the language, jumping off a swing over a canyon. Not for the adrenaline. For the moment after, when you sit on a rock and feel: "I survived that. I handled it. I'm alive"