in this personal article, when i write “art” i am referring to any creative expression, formation, or identity.

i want to speak truth on here as deeply as possible. i can only speak to depth, know depth, and understand depth. there is nothing surface-level to being an artist, nor to my being.

i don’t want to regurgitate ideas from people who did the same to others — i don’t want to turn someone’s creations into my own morphed extension — i don’t want to lie to myself. as artists we deserve to free ourselves through speaking from a place of originality.

i am not talking about plagiarism or legitimate copying. but the amount of times i see people taking other ideas of art and replaying the same shit, over and over until i become deaf from the noise. the same noise.

the echo chamber

i don’t want to be part of an artistic echo chamber. i enjoy connection and inspiration: it is a natural part of the art world. but to be an artist is to be undefinable and extracting pieces of your originality. as an artist, you are saying to the world, “here is who i am and how i see the world,” and not expecting anything back.

if you recycle ideas and curate art that has already been crafted, you are circulating the drain of expression. if self-expression does not feel like a liberation and undoing, then it is not real and raw.

to be an artist is to be brutally honest, face yourself, play, and rejoice in the act of expression.

it’s supposed to feel risky at times. daring. uncomfortable. but i’ve learned to embrace this because, yet again, i know i am facing myself.

i don’t speak to everyone

why are we speaking to everyone… why is some beat-down, content strategy, popular trend, tangled mess our foundation as creators? it is not something i can stand by, nor stand upon.

art does not close in or stay defined. it’s unlimited. it’s complete freedom. and if expression is freedom, why is it so hard to free ourselves?

taking a piece of literature or poetry or fashion or design or the unlimited pathways of art and mending it into something that is easy to understand for an audience: it can not appeal to me. the second i try and curate something for a specific group or individual or mind that is not my own: extracts the truth of who i am.

without shame, regret, or any negative emotion, we can go back in time and choose a moment we shaped ourselves to achieve a certain look or status or identity that was not ours. society and trends. it’s human for us to want to belong, but what if belonging starts with living as authentically as possible?

undefined

i want to be undefined and unpredictable.

i don’t want to be understood, and i don’t believe that is the goal of a true artist. i believe it’s an act of facing yourself and letting people be in the audience. it’s being willing to feel and explore those emotions and allowing yourself to be seen.

i believe, as creators, the unhealthiest thing we can do for ourselves is generalize ourselves because the eyes of our audience expect something of us. changing ourselves for specific people is only going to strip us of why we began creating in the first place.

instead, we should get clear (as clear as possible) about the identity we’re willing to face. how close can you get to your shadow? how far are you willing to go?

to feel everything is to be alive

when was the last time you felt completely alive, forgetful of everything, in a moment of infinity? you may even forget the identity you’ve been subjected to, and your very own two feet. self-expression is like this.

i do not deny that discomfort, exposure, and hardship come alongside it because an artistic life is one that can feel everything in pursuit of the work itself.

when i create aliveness is the goal, to feel this sensation. when the discomfort turns into bliss. when the rawness turns into a in-depth view of myself.

for when i feel, i know that i am alive.

— EM

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“i want to do everything, but end up doing nothing” is the string that runs through people’s lives, and i believe it has everything to do with the limitless potential of our creativity. it is not bad. it is normal. we are wired with thousands of ideas a day and, naturally, we see things we desire to complete ourselves.

it’s something that rang true in my life for many years. i would start projects and never complete them, buy things and invest money into projects just so i’d think i’d stay consistent, but i never could.

have you ever had an idea, felt passionately about it, and yet never acted on it? or when more ideas fill your mind, and you search aimlessly to start and end up never going through with any of them?

the plethora of decisions as a creative feels overwhelming and stretches us thin, because making a choice seems permanent and limiting. it feels simpler to never choose and keep options above the surface in case of failure or disappointment.

what if i’m wrong?
what if it doesn’t work?
what if i choose the wrong thing?
i don’t know what’s right for me.

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I believe solo travel has been made out to seem like the ultimate form of self-freedom, though I have a new take on it, after all this time. This is the illusion of solo travel — isolation.

One night in Vietnam, I sat underneath a stretched-out, starry sky with a group of six new backpacker friends. Everyone sat hip-to-hip as we raised our bottles of Bia Saigon (local beer) and listened to the ocean waves.

Small crowds collected along the coastline, and everyone seemed wide-eyed and alert for a late, purple evening. I felt not an ounce of tiredness, for I was energized by the people, memories, and small feeling of home the country had gifted me.

One girl from Sweden leaned in closer and said the words, “I can’t believe a week ago, I was completely solo,” and I smiled because I heard that phrase a lot. Another guy chipped in, “Yeah, but solo travel is never solo.”

And I nodded because he was right — five months deep into my journey, and I could name very few times I spent an evening alone. Six glasses clinked, and I closed my eyes, only to suddenly reveal morning time. The next day, my six friends had all checked out, moving on to their next country.

This is a repeating cycle.

New realization

There was a time (until recently) when I really saw solo travel as liberation from all problems. Not only freedom to freedom to go anywhere and everywhere, but become more of myself, and meet people who I was destined to find in the world.

I was alone, floating through new countries and cultures, and crossing paths with everyone who I wanted in my life. You get to be picky. You’re solo. You can accept whoever and whatever into your life because you choose. Whether it was a brief moment or lasting weeks, I found that travel brought me strong, deep connections. They filled my cup. I’ve always been someone who sought out something deeper.

I got used to creating strong relationships that were bound to a goodbye. Always a beginning to an end. In the start, this ached me all over and would usually leave me in tears, until years later, when I had mastered the art of impermanence. I reminded myself, if it’s meant to be, it will be.

Many moments have led me to now, a shifted perspective. I am an advocate for solo travel, openness, and independence, but I am also still learning and honestly documenting my own direct experiences. Not until this year have I faced what I was avoiding, and it is the hard truth that this “self-freedom” is really just an illusion. It’s isolation.

Everywhere and nowhere

The truth is, if you are temporarily everywhere, you will be known “nowhere.” This discovery can only be learned through hopping from place to place for months and feeling stretched thin by scattered connections in several places. My friend in Paris. The other in the Northeast of Brazil. My group in Guatemala. My nomad brothers and sisters, all across the world. These strong connections are a part of who I am and yet, they remain so distant from me.

If you think of this in a general sense, most people establish themselves in a singular place for years at a time. Although this can feel trapping, the trade-off is time — to build connections over longer periods, have a chance at long-term relationships, and grow alongside one another.

Connection transcends time. This belief I hold close to my heart, and I’ll repeat it till the day I die. Because it’s true. You can meet someone for a brief moment and feel as if you have known them for years. But I can no longer ignore the legitimacy of time. Why? Time gives us familiarity, continuity, and opportunity to build something more than a moment.

Impermanence

Once, I learned the power of impermanence in a park in southern Europe. I was very much in love, and it was very much fleeting because it was my last day in the golden country with this person. We sat in grass so vivid it was as if the saturation had been turned all the way up. They lay in my lap as I tilted my face toward the sky, the brightness almost blinding me. I felt warm. I felt like the moment could last for infinity, and I’d be happy.

They sat up and looked at me, face-to-face, and asked, “Do you think we’ll see each other again?”

I stared blankly. I understood the temporariness of what we had, yet I had never questioned for a moment whether we would cross paths again. It was inevitable.

But beneath that acceptance was an immense heartbreak. Not because I thought I wouldn’t see them again, but because I began to wonder what time would do to us. If we had the same lives, the same city, the same routines, the same routes—what would life look like? How would we compare to the people sitting here, in this grass?

I had made peace with the fact that it wasn’t goodbye, though I felt off wondering who separation would morph us into. Time posed a very important question, who would we become, with or without each other?

I replied, “Of course” but I felt discouraged. I knew my fleeting lifestyle led to fleeting moments with fleeting people. I was no longer worried if I would reunite with people. Long-distance does not scare me nor steer my head. Though I was faced with the realization that two people grow, mend, and shape their lives outside of each other, and moments are cut short due to my lifestyle.

People are bound to change. When you can not be beside someone in changing seasons of life, you are left to wonder who they’ll become.

Nothing is infinity.

An ongoing search

When I met my best friend, Summer, we were in a hostel in Guatemala. We locked eyes and exchanged a mutual knowing that we would be friends forever. Some strange, cosmic, mystical moment that convinced me even more of serendipity. Since then, we have made efforts to visit each other and meet in new countries around the world. We do this because we understand the worth and value of seeing each other again.

To be seen, acknowledged, loved, and chosen by someone is not something to take lightly and is to be held at high priority, over and over. The people that gift you with this in your life, I have learned, are a sacred connection and are worth finding each other again.

Although this discovery of isolation is unsettling, it is not defeating. Solo travel is a gift in itself: it is necessary for my becoming, my relationships, and my inner strength. It changed me forever and it pushes me forward. I am a nomad through and through; I believe it runs through my veins and I cannot escape it. That may be the defining factor. For some people, this will steer them away from nomadic living and rush them to settle down. However, I am not scared of being aimless because I know it will not last forever. True community can be found and established when the right time, place, and people come together.

I want my close relationships to be physically close. I want to hold the people who can carry me. I want to be seen by people who aren’t afraid to look away.

I want a community that I can trust and unfold to. To unfold completely and be loved unconditionally is heaven on earth.

I want a community that can know all parts of me and grow with me. As a nomad, I will search for this until the day leads me to the very moment. It exists, out in the world, for everyone.

Always, Em

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So I met this old hippie guy when I was in Puerto Rico. Sometimes we’d find each other by the glowing pool on a late night, and we’d strike up a deep conversation. I was younger and wide-eyed and fresh out in the travel world, buzzing with adrenaline and curiosity. Anything that gave me a hit of dopamine, I was pretty much drooling for it. Yet anytime life handed me an opportunity to touch depth, I went in headfirst.

And we were sat there by the pool talking deep and I was smoking a cigarette as he talked in a frenzy. He was a bit unraveled (possibly on drugs) but I liked hearing his stories. They intrigued me because they were psychedelic and revealing of the human experience. This night he talked about the people he had to leave behind to travel and the relationships he destroyed. His story was rough to hear but I’ve always had a tender heart and I listened with care and openness. He sat there telling me about his daughter’s who don’t talk to him and his longing to be loved again. He finished with mumbling gravely, “I’m tired of running” and he looked down into the greenish water.

And I didn’t know what he meant. I tucked back my bleach blonde curls behind my ears and I gave him a smile of pity. I told him something positive, which was probably insensitive, but it was my attempt to hold the depth he had placed on me. I was younger, and I didn’t know how to alchemize yet.

Yet something I do know now, years later, is what he meant.

I understand now why he told me this.

Internal vs. external

I can’t run away from myself.

I wrote this in my journal last year, in the midst of the travel whirlwind and having the profound realization that movement takes on an entirely new meaning when you stretch yourself thin.

When I discuss traveling with another traveler, I like to peer into their eyes and wonder which type they’re really referring to. I can tell right away the relationship they have with themselves by the way they speak about moving through the world.

Truly, everyday I meet people running from themselves, and I see it as clear as day, because it was once me. It is not the jobless, aimless, hippie stereotype but the people who can not face their pain. They don’t know who they are because they don’t know their shadows.

I can’t simply reduce travel to a one-dimensional thing. Those who know will understand that travel offers us external freedom, but ultimately, we are left to free ourselves internally. I’ve witnessed myself on both ends, and I’ve also avoided myself over and over to push away the truth. I’ll tell you that the journey has been much larger than anything I ever planned to seek out. I’ll tell you that it’s incredibly sobering.

There are individuals who are running away from problems, places, and people, and there are individuals who know, unfortunately, that it is impossible to run away from yourself. What a devastating thought for most individuals stepping into this lifestyle. It’s true, the noise dies, and suddenly you’re left with the silence of facing yourself.

High-speed

Once, in Indonesia, I got so sick and tired of socializing constantly that I isolated myself for two weeks. Before, I thought it would be nice to relax and relieve myself of the lack of alone time. But within days, I found myself ridden with anxiety and feeling like I could no longer hide behind the curtain of distraction. And every day, I would ask why I felt so lost, and so consumed by thoughts that I thought had disappeared forever through traveling. But the truth is, they never left me. Instead, they had grown louder and more at the forefront of my life because of my denial of their existence.

There was a time I was running, and it was a big part of who I am now. It involved electric, high-speed energy. Addictive. It involved starting over and recreating myself constantly. It involved discussing with others how we’re all lost, and laughing it off as we distract ourselves with more emptiness. It involved meaningless sex. At the time, it filled me with such beautiful distraction, and I believe most of us know what this is like: to completely lose yourself in tirelessly moving to keep some sense of identity afloat.

It took me six months of backpacking, heartbreak, and an awfully big realization to realize something wasn’t adding up. I was moving, yes, but I felt awfully stuck. People would confront me with fun and the game of losing yourself, yet these were temporary relationships that often left, leaving me at a standstill with myself.

The desire

Sometimes, I climb back into my memories to remember a time when I was sitting cross-legged in my room. This was before traveling, before purpose-seeking, before the whirlwind of everything, and I somehow was beginning to connect with myself internally. And in this fragile state of trying to know myself, I felt the most uncomfortable, soul-shaking feelings bubble up like boiling water. Though I still couldn’t understand, I knew I had emotions and wounds to resolve, hidden so deep inside of me.

Yet I also had a realization that staying in one place was not going to help me grow. I had a desire to change myself, but it felt incredibly inauthentic remaining in the place that had birthed me, raised me, and labeled me. I now had to seek out my own identity. This was going to set me on the high of new sights, interesting people, and pure curiosity.

I was standing at the forefront of a crossroads where I could remain in the same place, or I could step out into the world with a sense of surrender. This surrender is the acceptance that staying would amplify and morph my pain into something that was not myself, turning me unrecognizable. Without hesitation, I chose to leave. I had sureness, yet I was still in the wobbling and shaking stages of learning how to walk alongside my pain.

I always hated the word trauma because of how much weight it carries. But I enjoy Gabor Maté’s teachings and this one specific quote: “Trauma is not what happens to you but what happens inside you.” I knew how to detach from my past, but not from the feelings of the past. I believe this is what travel gifts us. We are offered the chance to understand what has happened to us and reshape ourselves into a new identity. It’s almost like stepping in front of your trauma as a new entity. But the emotions and triggers cannot be removed just by changing your community or environment… no, they’ll rise to the surface and confront you until you know what they are and how to tame them.

Integration

As I move through the world now, aliveness looks completely different. To feel myself maturing and softening in real time is a conflicting feeling. Sometimes your 20s ask for wonder and exhilaration, and sometimes they demand refinement and truth.

I like having my guard down and letting people in, letting people see the real me. Because there is no other way. I cannot take on anything less than the person I am becoming.

Running is no longer an option because I know I cannot escape myself — and, more than that, there is nothing to escape. I can only integrate every mistake, end, beginning, death, decision, portal, and truth. I don’t want to run because there is so much to enjoy in a sober and stripped-back way, peeling back life, layer by layer.

Internal freedom feels like seeing all parts of your story and loving them unconditionally. It feels like knowing yourself more, a thousand times more. It feels like sitting with your pain and actually breathing the same air with it. Because there is so much relief in seeing every fault, wrongdoing, and side of yourself and knowing that you can exist in the world unshakably yourself.

That is the true freedom.

Always, Em

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When I was twenty, I had no clue what a hostel was. It was a foreign concept that no one had told me about, until I was in Italy studying abroad. My girlfriends had booked my first night’s stay at a “hostel” in Milan. And when I walked in the doors of the unknown place, still, I had no fucking clue what I had signed up for.

This hostel in particular was filthy and had mold in the crevices of the ceiling. The hallways looked like those of a jail, it seemed like it was possibly once a prison turned hostel. The dorm was incredibly small and grim and had a small window the size of a sheet of paper, keeping the room dark. My bed was pushed up against the cement wall where I realized I’d be sleeping next to someone I didn’t know.

As the strongly opinionated eldest daughter that I am, that night at 4 AM I packed my bags and walked two hours to the train station just to get the fuck out of the situation I had been put in. Though my friends and I had gone through it together, I was the one who couldn’t stay any longer because of the discomfort the hostel had caused me. And this was my first hostel experience.

Relearning hostel life

Now, isn’t it hard to believe that this was my first hostel experience? I have volunteered and worked in 13 hostels around the globe and gained a lifetime of experience in just two years. I have fallen for hostel life over and over, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I have had many free weeks of accommodation, meals, and activities — but the fact that it propelled me into the travel community. It has given me friends that will forever be a part of me and acquaintances that have changed my life through just a brief conversation.

Something I resent the US for is the fact that we have never embraced hostel life like the rest of the world does. Yes, they exist in the US, but they do not embody hostel life the way they should.

Hostel life is immersive and community-based, while the US strangely prioritizes independence and separation from others. One of the many things the US does wrong is glamorizing self-reliance over connection. We’ve mistaken the ideas of reliance and dependence with togetherness and belonging.

After I worked in a hostel in the US for two months, I found that it drastically differed from any other hostel I had experienced due to the fact that it lacked community, openness, and atmosphere. More so, it was mostly people looking for an affordable place to stay.

Thus, when I discovered hostel life (outside of my grand first experience), I found that there was something different I was experiencing outside of what the US or my upbringing had ever taught me: that like-minded people could come together in a shared space, find a connection outside of our roots and hometowns, and find a home within each other.

From guest to volunteer

When I discovered work exchange, not only did it provide the opportunity for me to long-term travel but it showed me a different side of what travel could be.

I learned that I could build a space that felt more steady and consistent. I could facilitate relationships. I could grow more. All because I was working along side other volunteers and immersing myself in a space with people open enough to share their stories.

Although it is not for everyone (and being a guest is also incredibly fulfilling) I have found myself drawn to working in hostels occasionally to slow down and really feel into the experience. It no longer was about saving money — it was because I knew the benefits of staying in one place and creating a deep connection with the other volunteers who worked along side me.

If you also want to apply to work in hostels I use Worldpackers every time I apply to work and volunteer in hostels: Worldpackers Website

I also have a Youtube video of how to apply and a higher chance at getting jobs: How I Apply to Worldpackers

My experiences

It’s only right for me to be really honest and transparent about all my experiences and I have held back sometimes because everyone has their own viewpoints and series of events that lead them to a specific place and hostel but I will write these out in the sake of helping others. Keep in mind this is my own unique connection with the place and the people and I am quite grateful to have even had the chance to volunteer at these places.

Nomada Isla Verde, San Juan, Puerto Rico

Such a positive and incredible first experience. While it was only reception work, I learned basic skills here that I still carry with me today. The hostel itself has a team of amazing people that felt like family to me and also attracted fun and party-loving guests. The facility was super close to the beach and I learned everything about working in hostel life here.

NotSo Hostel, Charleston, South Carolina USA

My first and only hostel in the USA. The best part of working at the hostel was my volunteer friend who I became close with but I wouldn’t particularly say this was exactly what I wanted. Housekeeping isn’t something I would do again and I learned the importance in doing jobs that actually apply to my skills and what I like to do. The hostel mainly attracted people looking for an affordable place to stay rather than the travel community.

ECO Hostel, Granada, Spain

Located in a young and vibrant city in Spain I would easily go back to ECO Hostel. My favorite part was how close I got with all the volunteers. The jobs were fun and engaging, switching between cooking, tour guide, and social activities. We got free dinners and experienced fun day tours and bar crawls. It pretty much had everything I could ask for.

Nest Hostels, Tenerife, Spain

My Spanish hindered this experience due to my lack of experience and communication barriers. Though I liked Tenerife I didn’t connect with the place itself as much, as well as it took me some time to make good connections. The hostel is a chain so they have many locations and I helped with the social media. This was the only hostel I got “fired” from, because of communication barriers. Otherwise I still enjoyed island life and my new friends haha.

Khaosan Capsule Hostel, Bangkok, Thailand

The second I arrived at this hostel they treated me like family. I was a bit concerned to be working on Khaosan Rd, one of Thailand’s biggest party streets, but the hostel actually provided a quiet and calm atmosphere. They gave me money for food and I only worked a couple hours in the evening, helping people connect and enjoying watching the sunset on the rooftop overlooking Bangkok. We also had yoga classes and there were so many backpackers here to connect and explore the city with.

84 Gallery, Chiang Mai, Thailand

This hostel was much smaller and was a great place to settle after crazy travel days. Only reception work that was easily learned after one or two days. The owner was incredibly nice and the hours were easy. It was consistent and predictable, and I liked the friends I had here.

Outpost Hostel, Da Nang, Vietnam

Outpost was an incredible hostel ran by three young guys from the UK. It was attached to a bar and brought in many people with cool stories and a bit of an older crowd. I helped host social activities and made a lot of new friends in Da Nang because it’s a nicely located beach town in Vietnam.

Guni Guni, Puerto Princessa, The Phillippines

Not the best experience due to the fact I got really sick, but also the location was very secluded and not ideal for meeting many people. However the job was very easy as social promoter, and the hostel had very nice facilities and food that was discounted. Better for a quiet and simple experience.

Somos Hostal, Antigua, Guatemala

One of my favorite hostel experiences because of how welcoming everyone was. Antiqua really connected with me as a traveler and gave me life long friends. The hostel was flexible with hours, had great volunteers and also switched different types of jobs so I was never bored. The bar shift, reception, and social promoter were all great ways to get to know guests and enjoy Antigua. They also gave me discounted tours and shuttles, I would go back here.

Boho City Hostel, Chania, Greece

This was by far the smallest hostel I ever worked in but it was chill and inviting. The owner is extremely kind and she would buy me groceries. Located in one not the best locations, Chania looked like straight from a movie. The hostel was minutes from the blue water and I met a few friends here. The job was only a couple hours of reception and there was not much to do regarding how small the hostel was.

Hostel Sunrise, Rio de Janiero, Brasil

This was more of a party hostel as we had free drinks and lots of crazy experiences. It was very fun but high energy. The job switched between cleaning and bartending and reception. The hostel didn’t have the best facilities but it was four stories and had many guests. I had fun with the other volunteers and we had family dinners and got close. Lapa (the neighborhood) was not very safe so we had to be mindful everyday about transportation and our surroundings.

Wazy Hostel, Huanchaco, Peru

This job was actually my most relaxed experience and got cancelled half way through so I just had free accommodation but the town was amazing and I had the best experience getting to know locals and learning how to surf.

Changed, forever

Many people compliment my ability to adapt, move forward, change, and learn. I owe this all to working in hostels. I understand this is not for everyone, yet I was someone who said it was not for me. I thought sleeping in a dorm room sounded horrible. I didn’t think hostels could be clean and have nice facilites. I didn’t believe people who told me it was more beneficial to stay in hostels so that I could meet people.

Though some how and some way opening my heart has led me to truly enjoying how expansive hostels make me feel. I wake up and feel like serendipity leads me elsewhere, to the right people and experiences.

Always, Em

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I am a multi-passionate which also means I am not measurable or definable.

I can not see being multi-passionate as highly planned or coordinated. I can not unsee all of my many interests.

Creativity in itself is a scattered, intricately designed intelligence within us.

Creativity is interchangeable, and because of that I believe it is completely self-designed.

Real creativity is authentic to us and aligned with our aesthetics and expression.

You can think of it as “this is how I see and feel about the world, and here’s how I can attempt to show you.”

Rebellion

In my childhood, I’d bounce from one idea to the other, without hesitation or thought. I wanted to create in a frantic, multidimensional nature. My mind was withdrawn from any form of mathematical equation or curriculum. I hated the classroom, and creativity was my rebellion in saving myself from the boredom that school possessed me with. I remember sitting in class, listening to my teacher read aloud Because of Winn-Dixie, while I crafted a large, ornamental drawing in my journal I had bought at Michael’s for three dollars. She caught me, and I got it taken away until the end of the day.

The funny thing about the journal is it didn’t look particularly special at all — it was black and white with words covering the front. Yet somehow I remember it made me feel alive as an artist. I savored every page, and it felt like partaking in some kind of sacred act, writing in this cheap journal. I remember feeling like my secret pleasures — drawing, daydreaming, and really any hobby — were taught to me as distractions.

I believe at heart, we all possess some level of a fascination and a yearning to know our creative self. Especially in our youth, we are free from all that harms our expression and creation until something shames us or tells us it’s bad or wrong. We can not move through our creativity thinking it is a waste or belittle the power we hold when we follow through with the things that light us up.

As a multi-passionate person I find my rebellion in creating even when it seems impractical or unnecessary. There is no hustle, rush, or pressure in art that is true to self. When there is no financial benefit or outside validation, you create from something deeper, possibly more alive. All because of how it makes us feel. The act itself is self care, expansive, and necessary to our soul.

Inner blocks

The best thing a creative can do for themselves is ask what is blocking them from being authentic in their craft. What is being held back? Can they let themselves go in their art? Have they returned to thyself?

I like to know people’s blocks because I learn about myself through them. It’s like facing a mirror and asking oneself the same questions. What will be brought to light? Maybe we can mend, and dive deeper.

I believe one of my biggest blocks might be rare in the creative world: I have a huge fear of someone stealing or copying my art. In any form. I remember when it cemented into my brain, in early grade school when a girl copied the same drawing as me. A small moment that struck a chord and stayed with me forever. A forever wound. A wound that can examined and healed. That is the life of a creative.

Being a creative is vulnerable and incredibly revealing. It’s easy to know when we’re blocked because we judge, criticize or hide away from sharing our craft or processes. Who were you before society convinced you to be anyone but yourself? Who were you before other styles, trends, preferences, and projections shaped your identity?

A block of a multi-passionate is becoming overly consumed with ideas that it just seems best to ignore all of them. Instead of completion, ideas are skipped or overridden with distractions. In my experience, I seem to bite more than I can chew, and curate many hobbies of my liking until the work load actionably steers me away. I become indecisive or too broad in my imagination.

I have to remember to clear the path for every project I start. I follow through and commit as I go. This does not mean limiting myself as a creative, because if anything, I want to be free. But instead, I can be in devotion to myself by choosing a practice intention rather than indecision.

The core

Having many interests has never been foreign to me. I collected them over the years and found myself at a standstill, at times — essentially faced with asking myself, Is this how I should be spending my time? Why can’t I focus on just one thing? Is this all a waste?

One part of me was absolutely fascinated by everything, and genuinely didn’t want to settle with one or two interests. With curiosity and a great understanding that creativity to me is in fact, self care.

However I also found that filling myself with many interests also left a sensation of never getting anything done, or always more to do. Or my head would feel heavy with questioning if I’d ever reach higher levels with these skills because of the quantity of the ones I wanted to achieve.

So instead, I’ve had to resort back to the source. At it’s core, our own creativity truly only makes sense to the person attempting it themselves.

Always,

Em

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When I started solo backpacking at 21, I was everything except brave. Instead, I was white-knuckled for my future, free-falling into the experience. I was lost.

And I still remember telling my mom in a selfish haze that I was going backpacking and stepping away from college. She stared at me blankly, a moment of anger and a moment of sadness. I wanted to be forgiven, but I also wanted my life. My relationship with my parents faded somewhere between their desire to protect me and their need to restrict me.

Alas, I white-knuckled it. If I was going to die (what my parents thought) it was going to be a damn good way of trying to live. I didn’t want to go on traditionally and unconsciously. I wanted a chance with destiny, to which one that I created.

Two years later

One ordinary day two years later, I was sitting on the curb in San Jose, Costa Rica. I was smoking a cigarette and staring at my hands. I had dirt underneath each fingernail, and a bee sting on the side of my left palm that left a small mark. The lines on my hands were deeper, curving and intertwining like the roots of a flower.

I was changed. Mentally exhausted and blue, I reflected on the lives I had lived to get to where I was now. I could not deny that challenges had stripped me bare, leaving me to face myself and all of my wounds. Though, I believed wholeheartedly that there is no light without dark. Two sides of the same coin.

Every heartbreak, burnout, missed flight, slip up and move forward had become a natural part of my becoming. Same with every new friend, bonfire, ocean swim and laugh that brought me to my knees. They were all apart of me now. Everything led me to a new version of myself, even if I didn’t realize it. So in my exhaustion, I found that I had obtained a particular level of grace that led me to one thing, and one thing only: I could not fail.

The mutual knowing

Something I’m fascinated by in the travel community is how vast we are. I meet people daily that have just left their job. People on a three-week break. People who know who they are, and people that don’t. People who are lost. People who found backpacking, and claimed it forever.

In Greece, I sat with a man who had been backpacking over twenty years. In his 40s, he had a bright smile and a larger than life personality. We sat underneath the balcony overhang of the hostel I worked at, as a light rain came down. He told me stories of his evolution. In his twenties, he had a draw to go everywhere and see everything. As he aged, he slowed his travels and became more present, to feel the rain on his face. We finished off the conversation with agreeing to always honor the steps that brought us there, to Greece, to Crete, and to the people we cross paths with.

His adventures intrigued me because although I was much younger, I hadn’t been nearly as adventurous as he had been at my age. Backpackers constantly told me stories of living in the Amazon, hiking the Himalayas, or spending months in the Sahara. I quickly began to look at my own experiences and wondered if I was doing enough. Maybe I could risk more, push myself further. Maybe I could prove myself in a new way, if I just tried harder.

I came to find that my path to backpacking was uniquely my own. I like slow travel, and the art of integration in a new culture. I like to get to know locals, and feel into the experience. I like to wait, especially when making an important decision. I like to get to know myself along the way.

Vastly different experiences, yet oddly the same. The man understood me, as I did him, yet we were traveling in unique ways. Doing what’s best for us. Not only was every step and choice the best I could attempt at the time, but I was quite literally drawn into the places and people I was experiencing. Like a great design, I was being led exactly where I should be, and exactly where I wanted. Even if I couldn’t see it.

This is backpacking. Alternate lifestyles, wants, and needs. The more you create your own experience, the more things work out in your favor.

Short-term and long-term

Anthony Bourdain once spoke about regret after traveling because it changes you too much. I feel this deeply because I come home and the things that used to bring me joy simply don’t do it for me anymore. A closet full of clothes. My bed. My favorite mug. The perfume I wore in college. All of these things I see right through. They are temporary and short-term love. It’s a chase of wanting something and then getting it and turning my head to the next shiny thing. When you’re backpacking, you no longer do this for the short-term, but the long-term: experiences. These things cannot break, be replaced, or leave you.

My relationships have fostered another level of long-term joy. Sometimes I sit in awe of the people I have fallen in love with on all levels while traveling. It’s a miracle, spun around and handed to me. It’s one of eight billion people. I can never unsee something so serendipitous. I am forever changed.

Because of solo backpacking, I am on a high of happiness that does not lead me to chasing, but to stand still in complete infatuation with the people and places and experiences that so clearly entered my life for a reason.

Onwards

I have solo backpacked for 6 months, 5 months, 1 month, 3 months, and 7 months. I go home to breathe and set off again. However, I have reasons of why I am choosing a year. You could say it’s because I want to find a forever home, or a community I connect with. Maybe because it has stripped me of fear, or given me enough courage to adventure on. Maybe because it’s my job. Maybe because it’s just who I am.

It’s all of them, yet I believe on a wide scale it’s because I have a trusting in the unknown. I don’t know exactly how the next months will play out, and that’s invigorating. It makes me realize how dependent we’ve become on knowing precisely how our futures will play out, and how little room that leaves us to evolve as people.

I step into this year after experiencing heartbreak, grief, roller coasters, and time of rest. I am full-forced and ready, because I have prepared for this. I always travel with intention and meaning. Most of all, my eyes wide open.

(Seven more days)

Always, Em

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There was a time, as a child, I desperately feared the dark. I was terrified of what could not be seen at bed time. I was scared of shadowy figures and the unknown. Admittedly, I spent years in trembling terror with a night light that kept me sane near my bedroom door.

And then there was a time that fear melted, nothing left but me in my teenage years, slumped in my bed and with a ringing alarm clock. And a soon-to-be tardy slip. I was never on time to school.

I was no longer afraid of the dark, but instead feared bad hair days, missing out (FOMO), and my parents finding out what I did the previous weekend. And alas, these fears of mine were destined to disappear. I watched them change, like the seasons. From the outside looking in, I loved this process — so human of me to unnoticeably overcome things that scared me, to which new ones sprout, scattering my life until I overcome them again, and again, and again.

I watch myself become another, and then I am propelled into a new version of me. Growing up, I feared being seen, so inauthentic paths formed and merged in front of me. I squeezed myself in tiny boxes hoping I could be like all the girls at school who had straight hair instead of my wavy and frizzy curls. Years passed and I learned the more I embrace my shadowy figures and authentic self, the more I see things for how they truly are. I wondered what it would be like to become conscious of all my fears, name them word for word. Alas, I began hunting for all of them.

Moon song

(This is hard for me to write but I will post this anyways for the sake of overcoming fear)

Let’s bring us to more recent times. I was laying next to a lover and it was bed time and we were arguing. I never considered myself one who argues. But the tension was crammed in our tiny room, everything closing in. They told me they were a bad person, and instead of listening, I fought back with all my might. It couldn’t be true. I believe no one is inherently “bad,” though I know people carry wounds until they’re ready to face them. I know that I can do everything to see the good. I know that hurt people hurt people. I know they won’t leave me.

I was in birds-eye view. Why was I attempting to convince an individual of this? It was in this moment I was beginning to lose myself. I was trying to save someone that could only save themselves.

In our heat, they turned away from me on the bed and reached for the light. My heart jumped out of my chest and I felt my voice cry out NO, but it was already too late. The dark consumed me and I sat in silence and realization that I had been met by one of my greatest current fears. Not the dark. Going to bed angry.

I didn’t realize that it scared me so much. I felt paralyzed, tears welled and trapped behind my shut eyes. My abandonment wound had been reopened once again, with fresh blood. Anytime a conversation ends badly, I can’t help but feel like I am trapped with no one left to save me. I tucked myself in and felt more alone than ever, though inches away from a person I deeply, deeply love. We left the music on that night. I dozed off and awoke to Moon Song playing, circulating my existence. I drifted off again.

Days after this, I sat alone by the ocean trying to process my relationship with this person and myself. I watched the waves and asked for awareness, because I wanted to see. I wanted to see this situation. I wanted to see myself outside of my selfish haze. I was selfish for wanting this person to heal, and I thought I could do it for them. I could be the backbone. I could be the teacher. I could be there every step of the way. I could show them healthy love. But no, fear is a face off with thyself. This person was terrified to have me close and most of all, terrified to hurt me. Their shadowy figure.

I had a profound realization that encapsulated the whole event. In everything, my fear of abandonment had been struck and had risen to the surface. Something I thought I had healed long ago. Two shadowy figures that danced perfectly with each other.

I wondered how we all have fears, but who am I, to label mine as more worthy and true? When I could not see through the other person’s perceptions or feel into their experience entirely. It was time for me to break free, and not let myself go because of my fear of being abandoned.

The limelight

Fear hates the limelight. When I bring awareness to it, somehow it rears its ugly head and runs off. Though not instantly, I’ve found my ability to name fear creates a holy truth about it, and it dissipates as I question why it’s there in the first place.

I grew up with a fear of being seen. I didn’t like attention on me, and it took a long time for me to trust people. It felt unsafe to be vulnerable even when my depth wanted me to. When I was twenty-one and started posting on social media in the beginning steps of creating my business, it came to me that this block was outrageously at the forefront of my life. I grew up learning that looks and image are to be importantly protected. And being complacent is easier than going against the grain. It was all I knew, and I had finally witnessed it from the outside-in. My depth and intuition came from places unknown, so as someone who can sense authenticity from a mile away, I realized I was portraying a false version of myself if I could not post or be seen the way I wanted to.

Courage

When I was in the Philippines, and I was chosen to host a question game in a circle of twelve. We went around the table and reached inside a hat, with a balanced mix of simple and introspective questions. When I picked mine, I read it aloud before thinking, What’s your biggest fear?

I had just backpacked six months. There was dirt underneath my fingernails and my hair was grown out longer than it had been in years. The skin on my shoulders was tanned and peeling from layers upon layers of sunburns and beach days. I was stripped of the fresh excitement and nearly burnt out from the endless hostel hopping, thick Southeast Asian humidity, and the occasional hitchhike. I had stretched myself thin and was nearing the end of a chapter without realization. If anything, I had faced fear upon fear with the mindset that there was no turning back, or going around it. I’d go straight through.

Though when I received this question, I felt completely blank and stared at the card.

I was present, awake, and conscious. The card asked me for fear but I felt completely wide-eyed and willing to face anything that could happen. I was not fearful, I was careful and able to name it for how it was. Every time something made me hesitate, I faced it head-on. The six months of solo backpacking had stripped me of fear and instead replaced it with confidence and more importantly, courage to face what life would throw at me.

Maybe, fear lessens when we say it how it is. Clear-headed and strong. Maybe, it dissipates with the act of embracing it for the natural human emotion that it is. I like to have my eyes wide open. I like to be conscious. I found that fear itself runs away from awareness. Complete acceptance and total truth.

Always, Em

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The ironic thing about my life in college was I had nothing to hate. My friends were good, the partying never stopped, and my parents graciously helped me pay for school. The recognition of my privilege kept me hooked but confused on why I was constantly depressed when I wasn’t partying. The occasional nasty hangover or deathly college heartbreak would throw me off, and then I always bounced back into the underwhelming routine of, well, living.

I’d listen to people discuss their post grad plans, and that spiraled me into a bottomless pit of despair. I had no direction with what my life would turn into. It was confusing as all hell and I was scared, scared because my parents wanted a path for me that I didn’t want. I believe the part that frightened me the most was that I didn’t know what I wanted for myself.

There was a day at my incredibly boring barista job I saw a sign about study abroad. There were several programs offered at my school. It intrigued me, however people may be surprised to find out that I wasn’t drawn to the art of “traveling.” It seemed uncomfortable, especially if I didn’t speak the language or know the culture. Leaving the US seemed like a distant dream for a girl who had hardly left her own state. However, I leaned in a little closer. I got a good look, and snapped a picture of the link.

It could be my way to escape.

The choice

Most people use study abroad as a way to, well, study — and then return to school with their courses and classmates. I was using it as my way to start over, and maybe convince myself that I had a different purpose. One that didn’t exist in a college seminar.

I devoted the next several months of my 20-year-old life to four steps: One, convincing my parents that I was going to Italy no matter what.
Two, finishing my final winter term.
Three, cutting ties and releasing myself from the attachments I had built at school.
And four, tricking myself that I wasn’t making the worst fucking mistake of my life.

Leaving behind the foundations I had set up for myself was just the tip of the iceberg. I also had to accept that the path I had originally paved for myself would no longer exist. I was studying to become a social worker, and I had chosen the Renaissance Art and Culture program, which my counselor reiterated to me that “had nothing to do with my degree plan.” This oddly excited me, and pushed me farther to the starting line.

Some strange events led me closer to the day I’d leave for three months. I had some otherworldly motivation that lit up inside me like never before. Most of my years in school involved missed assignments, procrastination, and a short attention span. I even developed strange passions that lasted two weeks until I lost my motivated attitude to become a linguistic teacher, a respiratory therapist, or an in-house foster care worker. But determination like none other appeared when it had everything to do with changing my environment and breaking the cycle I had created for myself, over and over again.

A new timeline

When I stepped away from my parents at the airport, I cried. I buried my face in my jacket as I walked off, because it was March and still frigid in Oregon. I lugged around a huge suitcase and backpack through the hallways, still thinking I had under packed and forgot something. It was almost too much for me to carry on my own. That made me think: I had never gone somewhere this far, or out of the US, much less completely alone. But wrapped up in my fear was a relief that seemed so foreign and rare to me. It was like stepping into a new timeline. I released that although I felt an ungodly amount of imposter syndrome, every decision was a portal and this was my out. The only way was through.

I remember upon arriving, I felt a million doubts crash over me. I was stripped of any form of connections and forced to start over. I was most nervous about who I’d room with. We were organized in apartments from four to five people. I was gifted with girls whom I would have never met if it weren’t for Siena.

Zoë, Sofia, Ada, and Allison gave me a newfound realization that a fresh start doesn’t mean loneliness. We all came from separate paths at school and intertwined our experiences by living together, taking weekend trips, and city hopping in many parts of Italy.

Italia

Most people that have been to Italy know it brings out a warmth, slowness, and deep appreciation for “the art of rest.” Never in my life had I taken my time to focus on how I felt: to walk the cobblestone roads, experience the dim yellow lighting and smoke cigarettes the way that the Italians do. In the states I felt an urgent need to constantly be doing something, where as the people of Italy will do anything but force duties that aren’t necessary. They work to live. They embrace their jobs without letting the hours overrule their lives. They don’t chase, hurry, or hide away from the act of truly and authentically relaxing without shame.

Us girls traveled to many cities like Lucca, Pisa, Milan, Florence, and even took a weekend trip to Sicily. We all navigated our new travel experiences together. I felt like a beginner all over again and we all leaned on each other through the good and not so good.

We clung, not because we were just roommates, but because we were fresh in a foreign country and found a deep sense of friendship within each other. I felt everything had led me to them.

While studying Renaissance art, something came forth that I hadn’t experienced since I was a child. My love for the arts, history, and beauty of creation was reinspired. It wasn’t all at once, but a build up through out the course. A layering over and over of new knowledge and understandings of the hidden meanings within the paintings and the stories of what persisted so freely in the time of a Renaissance (rebirth). We would study the works of art and then experience them live, quiet, and in-person. I got to see Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus and Primavera, and Annunciazione by Leonardo da Vinci. I got to witness something igniting within me again, and this time I didn’t want to let it go.

My personal favorite, The Portinari Triptych by Hugo van der Goes, made me cry when I experienced it. Made in the 1470s, a large altarpiece with a centerpiece and two wings that involve such detail facial expressions, symbolic objects and narrative. I’ll never forget it.

An internal journey

We had a balcony that overlooked small vegetable gardens that belonged to elderly couples who lived below us. I always observed them picking tomatoes and herbs, so peacefully content in their later years. I wished for something similar, when I was to be gray-haired and weak, that I could find satisfaction in just existing.

There were always chirping birds in the morning, so loud it always seemed to consume me, always transported out of Siena and Italy and the entire planet. It was just me. In my second month, I had a realization in a morning of infinity, listening to the songs of these birds, that I would no longer return to college. My space away from the pressure of home had struck a chord in me, I had changed too much. Off guard and weary from my internal battle, I cried because I knew I would never be the same. I always assumed I’d go back and continue what I started, in dedication to my parents and society and whatever it was that kept me in a loop of nothingness. However that day was significant, because I made an internal contract with myself. That if I ever were to return back to who I was, in the same cycles and undergoings I would never forgive myself. I’d live with regret for quitting on my own self-actualization. So since that day, I chose to break the silence of living quietly and in repetition. Again, I had changed too much.

Through my own experience, I hope for everyone to realize their own potential past the pressure of purpose-finding and rushing. Italy gave me a space to ease back and remember myself. I could breathe and feel in to who I wanted to be. I left in an act of finding myself, though I found there was nothing to search for, I had all the parts. Which we all do. We must move with grace and understanding that environments warp our sense of selves. And sometimes, seeing a short snippet of what’s possible can be the start of a very beautiful beginning.

Always, Em

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In 2020, I started meditating. I don’t know why. After a few Youtube tutorials and guided sessions, the practice stuck around. I had become someone who meditates on a random Tuesday. When everything slowed and the noise died, I began to see things that I never saw before, running through my mind aimlessly. So ultimately, it didn’t give me a god complex or an answer to all my problems — but it did help me uncover an awfully bad habit.

I am a time traveler. I’ll leap back into infinite memories, and be back in love all over again. I revisit these times more than I like, and remember what once was. I want them to live on forever.

I hate it and love it. Mainly because although it makes me sad to dwell on how it used to be, I get to spend extra time with who I was at the time. What I knew, or didn’t know. There’s a time in most relationships where everything is golden and glistening and perfect because nothing has gone wrong. Ignorance is bliss and I can go back to when there wasn’t an inkling of doubt, just soft love. This bad habit aches and hurts me all over, as I am filled with nostalgia and missing the past. Yet, in a self sabotaging, almost unconscious way, I can float away in the middle of a conversation and relive every word they said last.

You’ll never have that version of them again

I have this memory with a lover. Said vaguely, we were in the grass and it was summer and everything was perfect. I can bring myself back to how perfect the grass felt and the perfect people and perfect benches and perfect way their head was in my lap. And how perfect the sky looked when I leaned back, and there wasn’t a single thought about the fact I was leaving them for many months after, that the separation would never bring us to that version of ourselves again. That it was my last time witnessing them in that light. Essentially, a part of me would forever be stuck there. And I would never be with that version of them ever again. A death.

Grieving a moment in time is basically saying you’re grieving the feeling you got with the person or place. As badly as you want it back again, change is inevitable and if it weren’t for growth and going onwards everything would be stagnant and awful. So although there’s a silver lining, I can not deny that the pain still lingers.

When I say goodbye to someone, I’ve learned to accept that no matter the time, distance, or type of way we will reunite, nothing will bring us back to the version we are at that very last moment. It’s beautiful and sad.

Romanticizing the past

It’s strange to go back and remember every time we held hands instead of why it all ended. Romanticizing isn’t bad unless it starts to become a hallucination of “what if’s.” It’s like a game of second guessing until I actually start to believe it wasn’t all that bad. There was a time I played so long, I actually started to believe if I tried harder I could have healed them.

That’s where many times, I’ve slipped. I walk on thin ice, attracting many partners who still have parts they need healed. In many efforts, I’ve learned that the only person who can truly heal them is themselves. As for myself, it is not my job to try, change, or mend them. Trying to change anyone may seem like an act of justice for love, but really it isn’t loving who they truly are. Even if it seems to be helping, their internal work is the only growth that will create significant differences in their becoming.

When I am with my hometown friends, the girls who have seen me through every whirlwind, every heartbreak, and every circle back to myself, nothing stands in the way of their honesty. There are times the past resurfaces. The ironic thing about retelling is that our stories of the same individual sound completely different. While I try and bring out how magical that one summer was, they’ll also tell me the dark side of how many times I also was faced with the reality of dating someone who hurt me over and over.

When I jump back, I am sugar coating, glorifying, and romanticizing. Everything is rose-tinted and selective. I remember their face, their story, and the words they said to me when they loved me most.

Love to me is infinite. It does not die with a break up or a bad thought. I can remember how perfect everything seemed to be and how in love I was, and for that, I am eternally grateful for even just a singular moment. But when I leave out the truth, it backfires. I’m left to envision a facade.

Uncovering the truth

Everyone wants to talk about the honeymoon phase, but no one wants to talk about what comes after. If the relationship isn’t aligned, the next and final stage is disillusionment. There is a dropping sensation that overcomes me when I begin to see things as they really are. It’s not disappointment, because in some ways, there’s a gladness in witnessing someone become their true self in front of me. But as a romantic I watch everything crumble, because I fell easily, hard, and with idealization.

It’s at these moments I want my dwelling to be turned upside down. I want to be happy, swing open the door of possibility again because I lost someone and now it’s time to release them in love. Now it’s time to celebrate. Now it’s time to try again. But what’s the point in moving on when I can use this pain to heal in a way like I never have before? The best healing from a painful partnership happens internally and singularly. Though that is hard for most people to admit. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t turned to other relationships just to try and heal one that broke me, a beautiful distraction.

You’ve lost someone who was never wanting you the way you wanted them. You dodged a bullet. And instead you are filled with dread because for some rhyme or reason, the only memories you float back to are when you laughed and laughed all night with them, and nothing was ever wrong. When it was the beginning of everything.

Every lover is a teacher

I remember watching the movie The Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind for the first time. I pondered what it would be like to wipe my memory of every experience I had with them, just to save myself the suffering. It sounds nice, it seems peaceful — hence why Clementine and Joel traded their epic love story for a complete erasure of their memories. What would you be like, if you forgot every good, bad, and absolutely treacherous memory with them?

If you erased every memory you shared with them, you would also erase yourself.

Heartbreak has knocked me to the ground and spun me around and made me turn into someone I don’t recognize. Sometimes I describe it as death. Does the bad outweigh the good? And though it would spare me tears and despair, I wouldn’t trade any relationship for the world. I wouldn’t trade the longing, the letting go, and the late nights trying to solve anything and everything.

Somehow, it was a great design of shaping who I am today. I don’t know who I’d be without my lovers and the pain of what went wrong and what we could not fix. Because every second spent and shared taught us something, it handed us the tools to fix and grow as individuals in separate ways, whether we wanted it that way or not. It’s hard to admit, but the version of me back then and now needed that suffering so that I could learn and never repeat another pattern. Unless I choose to.

I am far from perfect in love but if there’s anything I’ve learned I want to choose myself. I want to undeniably know myself and choose her again and again and be so incredibly whole, it leads me to someone where two wholes create One. I want to see someone at eye level, and bring out the best in each other because I believe that is love. Love amplifies your true self and illuminates the qualities that ignite and inspire you. I want to be the best version of myself in love so that my partner can witness, experience, and share that. I want to be seen.

Always, Em

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Instead, I chose a dark spare room with my ex-boyfriend at his family home, cooped up on a sofa too small for two people. I was sixteen and thought I knew what love was, so I didn’t doubt my decision to spend it with him for a second. I had chosen a lousy, underwhelming evening over tight hugs and cheap champagne with my lifelong friends. I was different then.

I remember reaching over to him and shaking his shoulders while his eyes were glued to his flat screen television. “Don’t you want to count down with me?” I said grinning and willing. “It’s not a big deal” he said passively and leaned closer to the screen, as if I had interrupted something.

A hatred so bewildered grew inside me, and before anything bubbled up I sank back into the couch and watched the clock strike twelve on my phone. When I arrived home just past curfew, I ran right past my parents’ concerned questions and leapt into bed with my journal. To this day, I can read back at how pitiful I was for myself. Tears stain the pages, written with he should have made it special. I had questions about myself. Why did it mean so much to me? Was I wrong for being excited about some shitty holiday?

This was a big turning point in my self concept journey. I was maturing, and so was my understanding of the importance of what I valued. So I made two vows that night. One, I vowed that I’d never minimize the importance of New Year’s Eve ever again. And two, I would never let the pessimism of another human kill my value for the things I loved about life. And god knows I have a whole lot I’m deeply and passionately in love with.

Is it better to speak or to die?

Time passed. Although the situation consumed me I couldn’t bear to face him with such a silly reason. Why did it seem so strenuous? I was scared, and maybe it was best to never bring up my inner conflict, because then I would be faced with a bigger problem: the possibility of losing him.

This was my first time experiencing the gap between what is and how I felt. This gap grew so large over the year I knew him, which led to our break up, and bled into many other relationships. I watched people come and go, and still, they would leave and words remained on my tongue. I could not bring myself to converse important perspectives if it meant risking losing them or the mere possibility I was in the wrong.

Something I wish I heard at the time is your own unique opinion is simply valid and doesn’t need explanation. Your perspective alone is enough.

Many years later, I began to realize situationships root from the depths of hell, as I began to have feelings for a guy I was sleeping with in college. How is it that I considered casual relationships could work for me when I wasn’t casual about anything else in my life? We were together for months of my freshman year. I could sense our end coming closer as I watched him walk up through the front lawn of my dorm carrying my clothes I had left at his apartment. I knew our time was through. He told me he was seeing someone else and they had started dating just the day prior, and before I could speak my mind I felt an invisible barricade form between us. He had done me so wrong and dirty I couldn’t look at him in the eyes, much less give him any sort of my opinion. My biggest fear had come true, and it wasn’t that he had a girlfriend. It was the fact I had truly fallen for him back then, and I wanted to tell him weeks earlier, but I hadn’t. And I was facing the consequences.

Most of the time telling someone your true feelings feels equivalent to leaping off a cliff. You can die, but you also plummet to your death with great courage and willingness. Vulnerability swings open like a door you can never close again, it is forever unlatched and exposure circles around, taunting you. Many of us would never willingly face this and I used to be someone so specifically protective of this piece of me. My perspectives, feelings, values, and opinions remained sealed until I began seeing the repercussions of holding it all in.

The bridge

A bridge between what is and how you feel is formed only by you. There is no cutting corners. Due to the fact we are all experiencing life through different eyes, the power is in your hands to say what is on your mind. No matter how hard I try I can not crawl into the mind of a lover and observe their every thought or experience. Too often we assume that the feelings we have are an exact match to other people. I believe it’s selfish.

There’s a quote I saw and can’t recall that talks about if you focus on small things you’ll start to think you’re the biggest thing in the Universe. Like when I was living at home dating the wrong people, I watched how I became overly consumed by negativity just by believing everything was happening to me, and not for me. I not only thought the people who were nonchalant, avoidant, and emotionally immature were right for me, but also that I was experiencing emotions on the same level as them. Leaving home and living beside a vast amount of cultures, beliefs, and places it seemed wildly ignorant to assume that my exact feelings could be replicated by another human being. Our minds are beautifully intricate, and even the emotion of happiness is experienced differently amongst us all.

I began to see the bridge close more as I let my hair down. Reminding myself that to speak is to be seen, and letting someone into how I perceive the world is actual raw connection. Take art for example. I’ve always been a devoted artist because art basically speaks “this is how I see and feel through the world, and this is how I will express it back to you.” Art is not “this is how I see the world, and my way is the only right way.”

My relationships began to shift. The ones that started appearing were filled with depth, spirituality, deep conversations, and romance. In someways, opening myself up to saying how I felt started giving me the connections I deserved.

Leaning into romance

I like to flirt with life. As a die-hard romantic, I know that my emotions run on high when it comes to experiencing anything in love.

What does it even mean to be a romantic? I was one before I even knew what it meant. Being a romantic means romance itself is a top infatuation in life but I also believe we feel this way about the human experience itself. I am infatuated by our desires, emotions, and dreams and I will let it consume me. I experience being alive in a grand and thrilling way because that is true intimacy with life. Closeness. Vulnerability. If it sounds scary, it is. But it’s the sacrifice of a romantic, while also the sacrifice of tasting aliveness.

Transformation is something else that infatuates me. The only way that something can transform you is by opening yourself up to the mere possibility that it can change you. How will this change me? Where will this lead? Will I get hurt? Will this last forever? In a romantic’s eyes, it doesn’t matter. The pain itself is worth the risk. I am willing to transform, or possibly die of heartbreak, for love, because change is inevitable and I am simply to willing to grow then to miss out on the opportunity.

I have dated people who are romantics and people whom are not. And it truly baffles me the ways in which the people who are more romantic have a playfulness with life. Sexual, delicate, and willing to be seen even if it’s risking it all. Not in a boasting, lustful, chasing type of way. But in a way that is open for anything, even if it means getting hurt in the end. I watched as an ex of mine would pick flowers for me after his shift and bring me them freshly rooted from the dirt. The soil would get all over my hands and I was so attentive to him and what he would do for me. I watched him write poetry and songs about me. Reciprocating the same, it seemed natural for me to also do dramatic romantic tasks as it was a beautiful dance between us of thoughtfulness and appreciation. Things took a turn when I realized he was a chronic liar and had a lot more to heal then I thought. We broke up, but the last words were left in a love letter.

I also dated someone who thought romance was funny, unserious and lighthearted. Another who saw it as heavy and too much to bear. Again and again I have seen the way that romance can do one of two things: a bad experience in love leads to misery or a bad experience in love leads to growth and belief it still exists. There is no in between, unfortunately. Although it will always exist, some people are so traumatized and hurt in love they let go of the possibility completely. Self sabotage.

Somehow and someway, the more I’ve tapped into my inner romantic the more I’ve been able to let down my walls in love. Because true romance and saying how you feel go hand in hand — you can ignore one, but it will dilute the entire relationship entirely. When I see love as something big, grand and exciting, the more I’m able to be ok with taking larger steps towards real connections and put myself on the line. Affection, intimacy, and emotional closeness grew less unsettling and more like a chance at realness. I became less afraid of losing the person and instead willing to show my whole self, naked and vulnerable, to reveal what’s meant for me. To speak is to reveal the truth, and all else will follow.

If you liked this comment and subscribe for more :)
Always, Em

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He told me if I saved a hundred bucks, he’d match the price, chip in the rest an I could buy my first iPod Touch. I was elated by this. I spent weeks scavenging random dollar bills, couch money and picking up chores. With a little more loose change and birthday cash, I finally had collected enough money to get the damn thing.

We drove to the Apple store and I walked out with my first screen device. I was beaming, and my dad was too. Around bed time, I plugged it in an outlet by my door, still in disbelief over the milestone I had reached. I had really done it. I reached for the lamp light to go to sleep when the door swung open, and my mom unplugged the device. Before I could get another glance, she swiped it in her pocket.
“Mom!” I screamed in disbelief.
“Sweetie,” she smiled, matter-of-factly. She walked a bit closer to my bed, “Your dad and I agree this is something that shouldn’t be in your room overnight.”
I looked at her with such confusion. “Why?” I asked with welling tears.
“Because,” she replied dismissively, “just because.”

I remember feeling off. It wasn’t a “big” deal but it seemed all-consuming to me. It was the mystery of nothing. Most significantly, my young heart thought I had done something wrong enough to lose the privilege.

I had never owned a device, so I assumed this was a normal reaction from parents for their kids that owned them. The next day at school, I confronted my friends about it.
“No, that’s never happened to me” one of them replied at lunch, after I finally blurted out my question. A lot of them shrugged, offering the same quiet understanding. This look of mutual respect was something I got very used to growing up, as most kids with strict parents also experience. Not only did it make me feel different from my friends, but it seemed to form an invisible barricade between me and my parents.

This iPod touch unsolved mystery turned into an entire year of confusion. Then 2 years. 3 years. 4 years. And on. Through various devices, multiple birthdays, and a million chapters of my life, I still wasn’t allowed to have a phone in my room, specifically at night. But why? Would the phone explode? Would it make my nightmares worse? Would I die? Was there something I didn’t know? It got worse, on my fifteenth birthday when I worked up the courage to ask my big WHY again, and my mom, slightly illuminated by her bedside lamp, told me that there was a chance they would revive the rule at my sixteenth year. I prepared for 365 days. Sixteen rolled around. The rule remained the same.

As the reins got tighter and more rules formed, I began to rebel more. Drinking underage, sneaking out, and experimenting with sex felt less of a fun activity and more of an act of justice against my parents. The excitement of my coming of age years had a deep-rooted motivation underneath, and I hate to admit it had everything to do with liberating myself.

The desire for truth

As the eldest daughter, I was forced to become a detective. Due to the rules that were enforced without much thought or clarification, I had no choice. Every rule was placed upon me and it seeped into my identity. Early curfew, a month grounded, names and numbers of other parents, location tracked at all times. I believe in many ways these rules stood in the way of my becoming.

I won’t lie, I was a bitch about it. I talked back, misbehaved, and fought for truth, because after all — I was a detective. My sense of self was forming on top of mistrust, questioning, and the control of my parents.

So, what is it that made me so angry about having strict parents?

Was it their words “people have it far worse” or “one day you’ll thank us”?

Was it their unconditional love and devotion to my safety?

What was it?

Still a detective, and a more seasoned one that is, I found it had nothing to do with how strict they were, but the lack of explanation. It wasn’t the act, but the search for truth. It wasn’t the punishment, but punishment without reason.

Clarity has entered my adult years and showed me the lack of trust they had in me also turned into the trust I had within myself. I learned that my instincts needed approval before anything else. Or that promises could be reversed in the blink of an eye. So as a young adult now, I’ve realized that my self-trust has needed more care and attention. Knowing this now has helped me gain more awareness and stabilized sureness within myself.

To repeat or to end the cycle

It was one of those summery days in my Grandma’s backyard. Surrounded by chirping birds and hydrangeas, I was asking her about the good ole days over croissant sandwiches and chilled white wine. I always liked her personal stories, just the two of us, because she would reveal little extra details that maybe mom or dad would disagree with or shun away.

I asked her about my Dad growing up, and her as a mother at the time. “Maybe I was a little stricter than I would have wanted to be with your Dad. But that’s how I was raised too. It’s all I really knew.” I sat there, intrigued. My easy-going and freely minded Grammy seemed to have never touched the idea of discipline to her kids. But I had only an outside perspective. As she spoke I began to see her tendencies flood through my Dad and how he was with me.

It occurred to me, as a child of strict parents, I know that it is passed down through generations. A pattern we inherit and blindly follow so we can do the right thing. Even if we don’t understand it, it’s simple for parents to say “that’s how it was for me” and the cycle continues. Now older, I reflect on how it would be to instead say “What comes with me, and what ends with me?” We don’t need to carry every action, belief, or structure with us to the next chapter. There’s beauty in breaking the cycle.

And I was gifted that, too. My mom grew up in an abusive household. She chose different in a place of chaos and emotional recklessness and handed over peace and care to her three children. On a spiritual level, she severed ties in old ways and started a new story, something I am eternally grateful for.

In a way, we’re all breaking cycles — knowingly, or not.

The art of middle ground

My parents didn’t see me take a sip of alcohol until I was 21. It was also one of their biggest constraints. One year on a family vacation to Mexico, I watched as my younger sister underage drank in front of them at the ripe age of fourteen. This was allowed, though I felt intense rage and jealousy as she got to choose any drink the brightly colored cocktail menu without being grounded. As she took her first sip, tunnel vision closed in around her. The rage had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with my parents.

Maybe it was their inconsistent rule making or my bitchy behavior but I realized I had a wound to heal, and it all began with claiming my unique and twisty story. The beauty of having strict parents is it teaches you responsibility, patience, and resilience, whether you wanted those lessons or not.

In high school I had a wish. I wanted to be seen. I would disheartenedly hope my parents would wake up and reverse every misleading rule, facing the reality I was right all along. Maybe they’d be inspired by other parents, who let their children soar without a location tracking app or curfew at nine. But now an adult, I respect that having parents that are too lenient isn’t the answer either.

Somewhere in the middle there’s a beautiful intermix of limitations while also kids soar, fall, and make mistakes. What a difficult and courageous job as a parent, to try and find a happy-medium.

My mom and dad always recited the same statement to me through out my childhood, “Parent’s shouldn’t be friends with their kids.” Friendship seemed like a far-reached achievement to have with two of the most important people in my life. With such limited access to this I became resentful and closed-off to them, like I had somehow failed the relationship. But as someone who likes to get to the root of pain, and to understand every facet of where we need to grow, this was an opportunity to face myself. A chance to look in the mirror and really grasp why this ignited a fire within. The more I tamed this internal fire and grew awareness, the more I found a softer and more unique connection within my parents. The more I realized this fire was still aflame within them as well.

I had many moments where I downplayed my pain because people have it far worse then I did however this is my unique story that provided growth and introspect. This is a healing point. My triggers and shadows had been formed by the strictness my parents placed upon me, even in small and unnoticed settings.

Not everyone is as bothered by all of this shit as I was — and I am 23 now and most of it has rolled down my back like water. I have forgiven and let go. But in this reflection, I have been given answers to very important questions I had been asking myself my whole life. Maybe you ask the same questions:

Why do I hate asking for help?
Why do I hate feeling trapped or tied-down?
Why do I hate getting in trouble?
Why do I hate being lied too?
Why do I feel like I can’t trust myself?
Why do I take longer to (truly) open up to people?
Why do I search for truth so devotedly?

To which I urge you to the same, to peer into your flaws with compassion and curiosity.

Maybe you had an early curfew or parents that let you run wild. But it’s beneficial to check in with your self-trust, and how you honor your own right and wrong. This is a on-going journey for me as well.

Always, Em

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what is life like
out there?
beyond the Silk Road
beyond the Indian Ocean
beyond Yin
beyond Yang
when i wished to be elsewhere,
i’d peer off and imagine something unreachable.
something outstretched between realms
something only the heart of a woman
could carry with such compassion.
unfathomably i was gifted you,
and you’re writing
so attentively
so tenderly
and i know you see me
for who i really am.

some things can only be felt
not explained nor said nor replicated.
some things arrive like light between the trees.
two palms faced up, a soft prayer.
I once called for you
in a reflection of a stream
glaciers that melt
dwindling down.
they come down like my vulnerability
they come down like my walls
and when i’m ever so exposed,
i’m seen for who i really am
and you remind me
that the sun still shines.
it shines on.

let our words be like small offerings to
each other
sent out past vast valleys and mountains
spun around and handed right back to me.
little me
little you

Thank You
i’ll walk the walk for you. long miles i’d face with such quiet persistence.
when we’re sitting there
underneath a night sky
and words that
i never thought i’d say
are spoken.
when we’re silver-haired and fragile
and words I used to say still remain true.
to know me is to know you.

Thank you
because when my overspending and
over giving and overlooking
was never enough for them,
me simply standing and being is plentiful for you
it’s a feast itself of Love for the Lovers themselves.
it’s abundant and restful. long strides turned short.
i can rest now.

Thank You
because
the wide world has
done wonders to me
and still
i’d look for
you.

written for summer rain
happy birthday, sum

I liked that she told me this. I liked getting to know myself. I still do. This subtle yet quirky piece of myself, not one-of-a-kind but not common. The process of knowing thyself, or self-concept, is like looking into a reflection of mirrored water and inspecting all the parts of oneself that are uniquely unparalleled, conscious, and true.

No one knows you the way you do

I don’t have a highly addictive personality, but one that is highly consuming. When I find something interesting, enlightening, or worth-telling — I will let it fully encapsulate me until it’s done its job. I’ll eat it up until there’s nothing left. So when I learned about spirituality and the art of self-help, I let the rabbit hole swallow me entirely. I watched as it healed me over and over and over again. From inner child work to Joe Dispenza to Ayurvedic medicine to the deeper workings of the mind, my emotional and physical seemed to grow healthier and I became my most mature version of myself. Like an insect drawn to light, I was being pulled to keep going.

One cycle after the other, I’d complete the lesson and surrender to the next and judge others who wouldn’t do the same. I watched how overconsumption of anything can bring a disconnection from the dance of life. I watched how it became too much. I watched how in the midst of extremes, I can halt. Find that little thing we call our gut feeling, our intuition, and let it be the catalyst for the real healing. You can ask it what’s really good for you, and it will never lie. That instead of social media telling me to pick apart my body and do a juice cleanse, I’ll tell myself to fly down the highway at 80 mph with the windows down. That instead of people telling me to get that next internship, promotion, or certification, I’ll tell myself I never wanted any of it in the first place. Instead of society telling me to hit the ground running, I’ll tell myself to sit still, real still, and get a deeper look at who I am. The things that are meant for me will come as long as I devote my entire life to the wondrous and fated love story of, well — getting to know myself.

If we were to all eat the same, move the same, and live the same lifestyles, our bodies and minds would still remain completely different. We are diverse beings. How could our needs ever be the same, when our journeys, lessons, and desires are vastly varied? We carry too much from our past to meet the future with the same perception.

Sometimes when I peer into someone’s eyes, I’d like to pretend that I know them. Their true self. But no matter how hard I look, I cannot fathom this level of understanding, because we as humans have unique and intricate entanglements of how we perceive the world. Interconnected, yes. But richly different.

Yes, I enjoy meditation but it’s usually followed by a cigarette.

This is not the same as everyone, and I am my own. I’ll ground my feet to the earth, and I’ll lose my mind over what I never said. I am my own. I’ll align my chakras and I’ll stay up late laughing with friends over a bottle of shitty wine. I like feeling the sun across my face and I love good sex with a lover and I love that there are some things that people may frown upon about me and other parts that are wholeheartedly-accepted. I spent too much time trying to fit into spaces that made me feel stagnant and small. The most expansive thing we can do is free-fall into what makes us feel alive and what doesn’t need approval from anyone or anything. To know what’s good for you will set you free.

Open wounds are where the light enters

Many moons ago I had a one-time experience with a therapist in a shoebox room in the depths of an Oregon winter. We’ll call her Jane. Pouring my life to her in a two-hour session was probably overkill but healing for me as I got to recite my life story from bottom to top. This version of me, in my 20s, introducing myself with the deepest and darkest points of my soul. Fun.

And in that moment, cross-legged and vulnerable and a little shaky from my coffee that morning, I thought about what I was revealing and what I was waiting to reveal. What I felt proud of, and what I felt ashamed of. What things I used to sugarcoat, and what I no longer would.

Jane gave me small looks of reassurance but also one that assumed I had a lot of this shit figured out. A bit wordless, she saw my maturity and understanding of self-concept more than my pain. This made me annoyed, because I still wanted her to see me. Luckily, she said a few things that made my time worthwhile, one of them being, “All parts of you are lovable and important. You’re probably more effective with imperfection than perfection.”

Jane wasn’t wrong. We are much more effective with our shadows and painful spots. Alchemizing our shame, guilt, and darkest hours starts with one thing and one thing only: awareness. To be willing to look at what has hurt us, and open enough to giving grace.

Partially living at home in my 20s allowed me to tune into myself in a way I never have before. I believe this is because I was able to face all my wounds head-first and with a careful eye. I was willing to touch the most painful parts before seeing the light. Our childhood homes, most commonly, are where we have the most emotional weight to carry. Patterns that show up now were rooted long ago, either left to collect dust or be cleared out. The invitation to heal this is always open, but often dismissed because very strong and deep emotions reside there.

I realized that painful parts of my story could be hidden or ignored, yes, but only in becoming a false and unrecognizable version of myself. If I could look at every part of me, my pain, my story, with inmost willingness and awareness, authenticity seemed to pour through me. That if I could truly see myself, it would offer the possibility for others to see and accept me for exactly who I am.

A never-ending journey

One hot summer day after a heated argument, my mom said to me, “Emma, this is just who I am and how I’ll always be,” and I sat there in unresponsive confusion. I thought, So she’ll never change? When we’re older, why do we solidify so willingly? I don’t want to be at a standstill with myself. There are times I want to backtrack. Times I want to reinvent myself, and then do it again. Times I want to change my taste in music and then change how I see my younger self. Times that I want to change the route home and then change my sexuality and then change how I make decisions. Parts of me I thought I’d never change, shift so effortlessly when I know I cannot turn away from the unfolding of life. Seasons are a reflection of what happens within. As change is inevitable, we’re ever-evolving beings and to deny ourselves of this is to deny life itself.

I believe the best part of self-concept is that it is a never-ending tunnel. Maybe some people are scared of this, as we can never be done getting to know ourselves. It’s exciting and fleeting. I’ll never have a grip on my identity but I can tightly hold every part of me with eternal love and acceptance.

How to step into more self-concept work (what helped me)

1. Set more boundaries with others

2. Keep promises to yourself

3. Write down the things you like about you/ your life

4. Challenge negative self-talk

5. Do activities just because you like them (no outside validation or financial benefit)

6. Take breaks from social media

7. Surround yourself with people who bring out authentic sides of you

8. Change your environment and notice how you change with it

9. Don’t escape discomfort, feel and alchemize

10. Make your world reflect you (update your identity in real time)

11. Limit over-identifying with the past

Always, Em

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older, yes
denser
stronger
more i have to say
and i say it how i mean
sureness on my breath
chewing on what could have been
chewing slowly, wondering through who i was and who i am becoming
as i gently navigate these waters
slowly, surely

older, yes
my acquired taste
sweet and honeyed
i can ask for more
and there’s always more
i am never starved nor spent.
i feel lavish
because i have notes of all kinds
notes soft and warm
notes all mine

older, it’s true
and I’m learning.
rings on my callused fingers
rings along my tree trunk
expanding
spreading
deeply rooted
and i’ll cut what
hinders me
because i am freely wandering landscapes untouched and unclaimed by any living thing
free to be me
freely alive

and let time be a
carving of my story
and let my story be
unpolished and unkept
weathered from sun that cycles back to me every summer
well-loved and smothered in that kind-of-thing
freely loved

thank god
i’m getting older.

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Here’s how it works for me. I solo backpack as long as I can. I’ve done trips that are 4 months, 7 months, 2 months—until the clock strikes and I go back to the US. It’s usually that I’ve fully burnt myself out of energy or found a very necessary reason to go home. And truthfully, it takes a lot for me to push myself to do so. Ran out of money? Back to the US. Suffered a devastating travel heartbreak? Back to the US. Contracted a mysterious Filipino illness and hospitalized myself? Back to the US. No matter what, I’ve recognized in my heart that I know my limits and a little time back in my parent’s place can help me gain my momentum back. Though I’d rather be out in the world exploring, this method is what has helped me continue the act for so long. But truthfully, my “home” is far from what home really is for me.

Home is a strange concept because it can have a double-meaning. Multilayered. Maybe home for you is simply the place you were born and raised. All you have ever-known, and the settlement of your family and friends. Or maybe home is the place you feel most connected to— a shift of energy that leads you to more aligned and authentic people, choices, and opportunities. Both of these definitions are valid but they are opposing each other because one is your roots and one is found elsewhere. It’s up to you to choose one.

I used to become envious when people would tell me that the place they were born and raised is also the place that draws them in by this magnetic energy. Essentially both of the definitions intertwined. How lucky to be born in a place that contains the people you love the most and experience such magic. Is there anything better? Yet after surpassing my jealousy I found that my story would look a bit different. Instead of scrambling to leave my hometown constantly and feeling homesick because nowhere really felt like me, I could flip the script. I’m in search of my home.

Homesickness Gone Forever

Two years ago, and the start of my travels, I used to get homesick. The type where it makes you all queasy and nauseous and questioning everything about life. I’d get paranoid that I made a mistake, and experience imposter-syndrome that I bit off more than I could chew. I would cry in my hostel bunk, just quiet enough that no one would hear me. I’d wish to be in my bedroom underneath tapestries I bought when I was seventeen, tied up with string lights that were the perfect amount of dimness and not overstimulating. I wished for my mom, even though I’d fought with her on the phone about politics a day prior. Somehow, I realized it wasn’t “home” that I was feeling, but the comfort and familiarity it provided me with. Home was just the name and the feeling I thought it would give me. The truth really was that “home” carried a lot more weight than I realized. Repeated patterns, old beliefs, and heavy feelings that were no longer in the present but still remained there. It was like my longing for being back at home was a warped perception of cozy and sweet moments, leaving out the bad habits and returning ex’s and low standards that always seemed to creep back into my life. Those was my roots, and all I missed was that soothing feeling of home. It was decided. I would become my own home.

Home Is Where Your Feet Are

In order to integrate a new belief system, you must convince yourself you actually believe it. Become the version of yourself that already knows. For myself, this was challenging at first— pretending I was ok when I wanted to be beneath my sheets, and laughing with my circle of hometown friends whom I’ve known my whole life. But I began to find that feeling of “home” even when I was thousands of miles away by simulating a similar experience. Picking my old routine up again, journaling with tea, and trying new cafes to work. I started doing more “phone dates” with friends, especially when solo travel got a little too solo, and this helped me stay more present in their lives and mine. I spun around and faced what I was truly scared of— admitting to myself that Oregon didn’t serve me and stunted my growth. It actually makes me very far from who I am. No matter how hard I tried to become new versions of myself, I found that I’d be walking back to the same habits and people without even thinking. This is the human condition. The only way to reach my potential was finding the locations that uplifted me and gave me a new sense of inspiration. As I traveled, I met people who gave me the stepping blocks to starting my own business. I spent time with wise elders who gave me the knowledge to step into my purpose. I even met soul-people, the kind of individuals so aligned with your path it feels like you knew them in another lifetime. All by just stepping out.

I am my own home. I am my own home. Everything I already need is within me. Some may not believe that you can reach many of the same feelings of home while on the road. It’s possible but your attachment of home must also be recognized and dissolved. New changes began to appear when I saw myself reaching out to grab goals and opportunities that would have never blossomed at home. I was expanding my comfort zone, and through that my capabilities as well. Homesickness then faded from my life as I felt into the ground wherever I walked. As long as I am with myself, I can find that feeling of home anywhere.

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Three Months Backpacking Latin America

Colombia

In January, (1/11) a long anticipated departure from my hometown began, as I left for Colombia to meet up with my best friend. I had spent time at home for the holidays, but even after six weeks I felt like I had overstayed my welcome. I was grateful to spend time with my family and friends and have a comfortable roof over my head. But somehow I had become completely dysregulated in my nervous system. It felt as if the universe wanted me to face unresolved energy so I could carry new lessons and growth into the next chapter of my life in which, as always, worked out beautifully. It was painful, but I cleared the space.

Meeting back with Summer Rain in Colombia was a breath of fresh air. We never take the time we have together for granted. This soul-friendship penetrates many beliefs for me, one being the urgent need to be solo while I travel. The more I travel with her I notice that not only am I lighter and more aligned, but I watch as I disconnect from my attachment of solo travel— I begin to see how connection and sharing these experiences may be a new path for me after all.

Fast traveled through Bogota, Medellín, and Cartagena for the rest of January.

Costa Rica

Next I flew to Costa Rica to host my second group trip. Though I had already hosted once before I was filled with nervous-excitement because a bigger group meant a bigger task at getting to know everyone and fulfilling my goals as a traveler.

I was filled with gratitude the entire time in Drake Bay, where we resided at an eco retreat space called Finca Ganadito. They host trips year-round and have kindly given the opportunity for thousands of people to contribute and experience a nature-filled life in one of the most remote places in Costa Rica. This was my favorite detail, because upon arriving in San José, Costa Rica’s capital, I noticed streets populated with tourism and Western chains. Drake Bay seemed like another world. Surrounded by wildlife like toucans and monkeys, and miles of secluded beaches and land owned by locals. We fell asleep to the quiet buzz and hums from the forest.

Me and 15 new friends, whom upon meeting in a day, seemed to truly connect here. Seven days and we were all there for a reason. Our own stories led us there, and we were creating something of our own in Costa Rica. A true blessing for me to witness such growth and awe from people that I got to cross paths with.

Brazil

Arrival in Brazil felt fleeting, exhilarating, and unprepared. I applied for my Brazil visa months prior yet still hadn’t printed out my Visa certification. In the airport, the front desk notified me that I needed to do this before going and they did it for me with rolled eyes. I knew what I was walking into— spontaneity, chaos, and most of all, celebration in a country I finally was ready to experience.

I chose to work at a Hostel Sunrise during Carnaval, to save a bit money and build connections. I knew I wanted to stay a month and truly feel Río de Janeiro, and volunteering always helps me ground my feet a little. But my time in Brazil would be far from grounded— Carnaval is alive, freeing, sexual, and immersive. You get pulled in to dance and you must move your feet and flow with the rhythm. You don’t choose how Carnaval happens, it chooses for you. Letting go is apart of the dance.

Nonetheless, my time was magical. Not only did I meet incredible people along the way, but I got to live it up more than I ever have on my travels. Through I completely drained my social battery and slept the shortest amount of hours in one month I ever have in my life, I was exhaustedly joyful with how much appreciation I had for Brazil and all her glory.

Also, besides Carnaval— UV 14, caipirinhas and laying out on some of the most iconic beaches in Brazil.

Peru

Summer Rain and I also met in Brazil and we planned to go to Argentina after our sleepless nights in Rio. However in my final days I got the intense urge to book a one-way to Peru. I couldn’t explain why logically, it was a gut-feeling pestering me until I accepted it as my next location. In a video I recently watched, a girl says the only decisions you overthink are the ones when you go against your intuition. Lucky for me, my intuition is pretty much the only thing I listen to while I’m backpacking. I pressed confirm for my ticket and two days later, I was on my way to Lima.

I made a deal with myself to stay quiet in Lima. After two and a half weeks of hibernation (hiding in hostels, working, and absolutely no partying) I built up the energy to go to Huanchaco, a small beach town near Trujillo. I wanted to work in a hostel again, and although I didn’t know much about the town I knew I could practice my surfing and disconnect from the city. I liked Lima, but not enough to stay too long.

Suddenly, and all at once I crossed paths with locals and people willing to include me in experiences that I’ll never forget. Local events, parties, bonfires, and community gatherings all placed around me. The universe works in mysterious ways yet I believe these opportunities were given to me to grow, integrate, love within community, and deeply feel into my travels. I’m writing this very soon after this and I’m still in awe, I still need time to process how grateful I am. Two weeks later and I sent myself on my way, to continue what I started.

Writing this live from Peru. Three months traveling. This is it. I don’t feel any ounce of burn out, as in the past sometimes I’d say otherwise. I know a new chapter is emerging. One with more love, clarity and adventure. This truly is it. Every twist, turn, inner and outer experience, I accept with open arms. This is it.

Always, Em

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we know this
with our knees crossed
hair pulled on one side
rain and
the back porch light.
slowly but surely
i’m noticing
more than
before.
hair dripping and
i’m becoming present.
i’m drawn in by you
and released back
to a spiral.
twisting and curling.
droplets
drying.
is there anything
i could say
to make you
stay —
or go?

do i know you?
a sacred place
shelter i always needed.
let’s organize our depth
one by one
shadowy figures in the snow.
i’m hate being cold
i hate being seen
and you’re
peering in
so cautious
and love fucks with
my head
as it mends pieces of me
from many lifetimes
ago.

and do you know me?
like frameworks
mandalas that heal me,
we make it work
we pay our dues
we serve the people.
and behind closed doors,
a magnetic pull
draws me to you
and i no longer take things
too far,
i no longer seek pleasure
in the past.
i no longer resent myself.
i see birds
across the Appalachian
i found there’s no point
in looking back.
there’s no one
there for me.
and i found
in your eyes
a weight from my shoulders
lifted
ascended
a shadowy stranger
uninterested in
talking me up.
while
your holy water
cleanses me
i choose to
be
here
now
you open your eyes
to the wondrous
morning light
let’s not leave
with anything
left unsaid.

Purpose is not your job, your income, or how productive you are. It has nothing to do with your career path or how it aligns with money, praise, and status. It is not just one thing. Purpose goes deeper, within our hearts and bodies.

Discovering Ikigai, the Japanese concept, was a real awakening in discovering my purpose. Notice in the diagram:

The word comes from two parts: “iki” = life “gai” = value or worth

So ikigai = the value or purpose of your life.

At first, this conflicted me and actually sabotaged a lot of what I imagined my future would look like. I went to school originally to study social work because my purpose (I thought) was to “help people” and though everything else in my body rejected it, I still was determined to label it as mine. Determined. The medical field was out of the question because I had no commitment to the amount of studying, memorization, and hard work it takes to dedicate my life to it. So I spent hours in lectures about mental health fundamentals and family human services that often left me feeling more disturbed than fulfilled. It actually fucked with my head a little, and I believe it takes a special soul to be able to handle such darkness. Still, determined. Because having a “purpose” almost seemed to define me more than my becoming itself.

After I discovered Ikigai I saw small shifts that led to bigger outcomes. I leaned back on school, and the practicality of it and I started focusing on things that genuinely made me happy. Maybe my purpose couldn’t be answered through school, but more my interests and how my unique voice sounded amongst others. I started reading more. Reawakening my creativity. Entrepreneurship. Suddenly travel entered my life, and I was set on a rollercoaster of self discovery and a second glance of how I truly could help people. And it wasn’t through social work.

I was done replicating. Repeating. Responding. I didn’t want to do something that someone else had done, follow in my parent’s footsteps, and make everyone else proud of me when I myself wasn’t—I wanted to room to grow. So that’s what I did. I created space. I began traveling in 2023. I started expanding my mind instead of my how many classes I was taking or how many times my parent’s gave me a nod of approval. Maybe I disconnected from the education world a little more than I should have—but in all honesty, I did it because I was burnt out and tired of labeling my “purpose” as something I could obtain through school. It does not exist. Your purpose is much grander and harder to fit into the boxes we label “career,” “job,” or “school.”

As I moved, wandered, and lost myself I became so in-synch with what made me happy. I was transported back to the beginning when I was in my bedroom when I was twelve, so certain that I’d be an artist one day. I covered my walls in so many canvases that my parent’s didn’t know to be proud or be concerned. I stained my carpets with oil paint and my hands with it too. I wrote, sang, danced, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care until at some age, that I can not recall, I began fearing the eyes of others and I stopped all of my creative outlets because I learned that expression was something to hide and I’d possibly be rejected. It buried so deep inside me that I forgot it all up until I left to go find parts of myself by traveling. The paradox till captivates me that I wrote two years ago: I left to go find parts of myself yet I found that everything was already within me. The answers revealed when I let my old life die. Your life is repetition. If you want to find a new purpose, you must break the pattern.

So I am not saying that you need to necessarily leave to find your purpose, but I am saying that it will drastically help. Starting fresh and looking at the world with a new lens. I forgot about finding my “purpose” and started remembering who I was at my core. I let go of who I wasn’t.

Another run in I had with “purpose” I was solo traveling in Tenerife. In all my travels this was a time I found myself extremely alone, as I hadn’t yet connected with anyone for weeks. Solo travel can be strange, as it fluctuates between constant socialization to complete isolation. At first I enjoyed this solitude, as I normally carve time out of my day to have it. However going on two weeks I began to feel detached and consumed by my thoughts. Every evening I went to the beach for sunset, and on a day I felt particularly off I sat in front of the ocean and I cried. I felt pathetic because in between tears I realized I was in front of the most marvelous view, with the bright sun fading above the waves, and not a cloud in the sky. There was music playing, and palm trees outstretched for miles. There were people around me. There was nothing wrong. My island-life seemed so perfect, but something was missing, and in all my years teaching myself to feel ok being alone, I wasn’t. Why was my independent, fearless, eldest-daughter-nature not ok with being alone? Why?

An important lesson had revealed itself to me, and it had nothing to do with my self-reliance. Connection is human-nature, and because of that we will always feel a void when we are separate. How does this relate to purpose? The act of contribution and applying meaning to the world is essential. Giving. I had never seen something so clear, and profound. You can have everything—status, wealth, talent—and yet we crave a bridge that connects us to others. Our potential grows when we offer ourselves to the world, and it equally fulfills both people and something within us. We can be very satisfied alone. I’ve found contentment and even a desire. But unfortunately there will be a lacking, a missing piece, until we decide sharing is a driving force that gives us meaning.

Nonetheless, connection and Ikigai have significantly changed the way I see purpose in my 20s but here are some more suggestions if you’re searching for purpose (I believe we have multiple and it’s limiting to think we have one):

Small advice on aligning with more purpose in your life

Don’t be afraid of hard times.

Life will reveal many trials to us that we need to face. Sometimes unexpected, predicted, self-inflicted, or unavoidable. To be human is to experience some form of pain. Purpose doesn’t always arise through our happiest moments, as sometimes our biggest turns and tribulations will reveal what brings us a sense of justice or contribution for the world. Hard times will naturally enter our lives. I’ve started to ease my eye for them and look at them with some sort of lesson that eventually unfolds itself to me. Not always will purpose come through but life softens when you begin to see everything as a lesson and a form of strengthening (in time).

Copying others won’t make you happy.

Repeating won’t make you feel better, it may bring you closer to what they have but further from who you are. Your options may be limited as well. Stepping away to see the big picture, to explore you’re world of options, and to grow individually can help. If you’re focused on a certain group of people or career path or specific person, and still don’t feel drawn by purpose there’s a chance that you haven’t expanded your options and created the space for you’re uniqueness. Your authentic energy can not be replicated and it should be a goal to uplift in this process.

Jealousy is a map.

Jealousy is nothing more than a signal that something matters to you. Alchemizing jealousy into making yourself capable is the best possible way to counter it. Maybe it’s an action you haven’t acted upon. Maybe it’s something you don’t have the skills for and need to learn. Maybe it’s because you’re waiting for the right time. But jealousy can be used and turned into a new direction for you to follow, as inspiration.

Surround yourself with people who inspire you.

This is one of the easiest ways to sharpen your instincts at finding your purpose— surrounding yourself with people who have something within them that you feel within yourself. Getting inspired by individuals who are carving a path and working towards it consistently. People that are growing and experiencing the process will give you the energy and motivate you to follow yours (and uplift you along the way).

Be ok with being a beginner (all of the time).

Being a beginner puts us in an awkward and choppy state. A lot of trial and error. When we were kids we never avoided this. As a child, everything was new and it didn’t shy us away because the goal was to experience. If anything, it made us more motivated to get up again and continue trying. Why did we lose this? We became more fearful of judgement from others and we lost the spark of being curious to start over. Practice, play, and embrace uncertainty. Let go of expectation and try for the art of experiencing. You’ll discover yourself along the way.

Always, Em

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As a solo backpacker who works and posts on social media, I’ve posted my fair share of content about backpacking. I’ve consumed it too. It changes your life, choose yourself, the time passes anyways, we can’t get this time back, and on and on and on. I made the observation recently of how different social media portrays this lifestyle now compared to when I started. A complete fluctuation in solo travelers, adventurers, and people in between jobs or life transitions, searching for a new path. You can endlessly scroll through content of people alone at cafes, with some inspirational quote, and telling you to leave it all behind. And I’m one of them.

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I quite enjoy seeing people share their stories, vulnerability, and crazy side quests for the world to see. It inspires me and others who want to take the first step but don’t know how. It gives people the notion “we’re all figuring this out together.” But on the other hand, you can also watch picture-perfect, curated clips of backpacking and going abroad for a month and conceptualize that’s exactly how it will play out.

For example, I used to share a lot more videos of me sitting beside palm trees, with my computer out, sharing how I changed my life because I left college to start traveling on my own. But behind it all, people didn’t see the months of confliction with my parents, the tears and solo breakdowns in airports, or the embarrassingly long hours I spent looking for an online job. There was the time I got fired at a hostel, the various sleepless nights in shared dorms (up to 20 people in one room) or simply the rocky coming-of-age transitions of living life in my 20s.

Something began to shift within me a few months ago when I was watching a girl’s TikTok video of stunning nature clips, açai bowls, and beachside Bali living that quoted, Not to be dramatic but I think everyone should quit their jobs and travel the world. Although in the past I more than likely would have posted something similar, I couldn’t help but shake my head. I scrolled, and saw something awfully similar, repeating the same quote.

Some Truths About Glamorizing Solo Travel and Backpacking

1. Not everyone can just “leave it all behind”

It’s an immense privilege to quit your job. It’s a privilege to want to start over, and get to start over. It’s a privilege to have the option. To have the perfect sliver of timing to leave your hometown for a bit and experience somewhere new. I’ve realized it can be more meaningful to acknowledge that privilege rather than glamorize the decision. Remembering that keeps the experience grounded in humility rather than what not everyone has the opportunity to have.

2. Backpacking and solo travel truly isn’t for everyone.

I’ve learned this through a lot of my clients. We’re all extremely different in the way we travel and the goals we set for ourselves. It’s true, I believe that most people can benefit from a solo trip and find the courage to do so, but I also believe that not everyone will fall in love with it like I did. Solo travel itself is very different energetically. Making decisions, running the show, and a lot of time spent alone suddenly escalating to always socializing. Although it’s dreamy to think of everyone giving it a try, it’s unrealistic to say it will change everyone’s life. It’s impossible to say everyone will like solo travel. Generalizing that it’s for everyone, and everyone will have the same response hasn’t added to social media one bit, it just removes the humility out of it.

3. Not everyday feels like paradise. At all.

I can respect a highlight reel of a perfect day in the life while solo backpacking because, I too, post on social media. But I also know that it’s far from the truth. Solo backpacking is hard. Actually, it can become very self-reflective at times and reveal to you wounds you didn’t know were there. That’s why a lot of my brand and coaching is about helping people with growth and travel, because people start to realize before, during, or after the trip, there is much more deep insight about themselves as an individual that they previously expected. How do you want to change? Who do you want to show up as? What areas of your life need more attention? Not to mention missing flights, pickpocketing, exhaustion, and loneliness doesn’t make all of the floating questions easier. I will tell you that the good overrides the bad, always and forever. But I’d be lying if I told you there won’t be challenges.

4. It can only change your life if you let it.

Yes, it’s true solo backpacking can change your life, and more often times than not, it will. But I’ve met multiple backpackers (sometimes, pessimistic) who tell me travel didn’t change anything for them, besides giving them a decent trip. And while I stand on the complete opposite side of the spectrum because backpacking flipped my life around and changed the trajectory of how everything has unfolded (not to be dramatic), I can absolutely understand their perspective. Human perception is beautifully diverse, and we will always experience chapters in our own way. More importantly, I actually believe solo travel and backpacking requires something called an open heart. You need to be willing to grow with the experience. You need to be willing to change and not afraid of the person who will return home after with a new mindset and differing beliefs. Being curious and moldable will take you far. Don’t question, will this change my life? But rather, how open am I to change?

Most of my solo travel clients tell me they don’t feel brave when they first start traveling alone. I always tell them that’s the whole point. Solo backpacking isn’t about already being brave, it’s about becoming brave along the way. It’s about remembering not to fall for the facade of journaling at a cute café, sunset evenings, perfect train rides, matching sets at the airport, and feeling fearless and independent the whole way through. It’s remembering you can problem solve and not ruminate on what could go wrong. This duality is what solo travel is about: perfectly imperfect, a push and pull between discomfort and growth.

Social media may glamorize it, but in all my vulnerability and truth, I will tell you solo travel is often messy, uncertain, and uncomfortable. And that’s exactly where the growth happens.

Always, Em

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pieces of me no longer fit
and pieces that slip on
like a Sunday
when i realize
my church
is the
mountains
and the trees.

you can start over
at 2:36 pm.

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