Before 2020, adventure wasn’t something I scheduled.
It was simply how I lived.
A new country.
A crowded market.
A side street in Asia that looked interesting enough to wander down.
A conversation with someone I’d never met.
An unexpected invitation.
A meal where I couldn’t pronounce half of what was on the table.
I loved all of it.
Risk energized me.
Not reckless risk.
Curious risk.
The kind that reminds you how wonderfully big the world really is.
For years, I traveled with little more than curiosity and confidence.
Friends joked that I had an iron stomach.
I could eat almost anything, almost anywhere.
Street food in Southeast Asia.
Family meals in villages.
Local markets.
Tiny cafés tucked away from the tourist paths.
I trusted that I would be okay.
Then COVID happened.
Like everyone else, I adapted.
Hand sanitizer became part of every trip.
Crowds felt different.
Airports felt different.
People felt different.
Without realizing it, something else changed too.
The quiet confidence I had carried around the world disappeared.
Questions I had never asked before became constant companions.
What if I get sick?
What if this isn’t safe?
What if my body can’t handle it this time?
The world hadn’t only changed.
My relationship with the world had changed.
For a long time, I thought I was grieving canceled trips.
I wasn’t.
I was grieving the version of myself that stepped into the unknown with childlike curiosity.
The fun was somehow missing.
Not every trip.
Not every experience.
Just enough that I noticed.
I missed wandering without calculating risk.
I missed saying yes before overthinking.
I missed believing that the next side street might hold a conversation that would change my life.
I’ve also become more compassionate.
Before, I couldn’t fully understand why some people hesitated to travel, try something unfamiliar, or embrace uncertainty.
I often encouraged them to take the chance.
To trust. To go.
Now I understand that courage looks different after fear has been invited into the room.
People carry experiences we cannot always see.
And sometimes healing isn’t about convincing someone to be brave.
It’s about patiently walking with them until curiosity begins to return.
Recently, I’ve noticed something shifting.
It’s subtle.
When I think about another country, my first thought is no longer, What could go wrong?
It’s becoming, I wonder what I’ll discover.
That feels like healing.
Not because I’ve become naïve again.
I don’t think I’ll ever travel exactly as I did before.
But I am rediscovering wonder.
My eight-year-old nephew reminds me of that every time his family prepares for an international trip.
Days before they leave, he can barely sleep.
He wants to know what the country will look like.
What the food will taste like.
What children he’ll meet.
What adventures are waiting.
When he comes home, his eyes are brighter.
He carries stories.
Questions.
A little more wonder than he left with.
Watching him has made me realize something.
I want my eyes bright again.
Not because I want to erase what the last few years have taught me.
But because I don’t want fear to become the loudest voice in my life.
There are still people to meet.
Stories to hear.
Cultures to learn from.
Meals to share.
Unexpected turns down unfamiliar streets.
I hope, in the years ahead, to bring more of those stories here.
Not simply to tell you where I’ve been.
But to remind both of us that the world is still full of beauty waiting to be discovered.
And perhaps that’s what healing looks like.
Not returning to who we were.
But allowing wonder to find us again.
A Question for Reflection
Is there a part of yourself you’ve quietly been grieving?
And have you noticed it beginning to return?
Keisa, I sat with your questions for a long time this morning.
“Is there a part of yourself you’ve quietly been grieving? And have you noticed it beginning to return?”
What a complicated, layered question to encounter while sitting in the depths of grief.
I realized that I have quietly grieved not only people and relationships, but parts of myself that became casualties of repeated loss. The woman who believed that love, faithfulness, prayer, patience, and simply showing up would eventually be enough to hold relationships together. The woman who expected certain people to always be there. The woman who still believed that if something broke, somehow it could always be repaired.
Some losses have been recent. Others began decades ago. And some involve people who are still very much alive, which carries its own kind of grief.
But your words made me consider something I hadn’t quite named before: perhaps healing isn’t the return of the woman I was.
You wrote, “Not returning to who we were. But allowing wonder to find us again.”
Maybe that’s the invitation.
I’m not sure yet what is returning in me. But I know I’m still here. I’m still curious. I’m still dreaming. I’m still learning. I’m still pursuing things that matter to me. And somehow, even in the midst of profound grief, there are moments when I laugh until my stomach hurts.
Perhaps those are little signs of life returning.
Thank you for asking a question I didn’t know I needed to sit with today. 🧡