Hopeless Wanderer

Today, after gathering all the necessities, I sat crisscrossed on the floor. My blue luggage was splayed open—taking up far too much space—as I placed each item in specific spots, fully aware that in less than a day, I’d have it thrown all over the hotel room. Searching for the one thing I most definitely forgot on the kitchen counter, right next to a notebook with a page titled, “DO NOT FORGET.”

For a brief moment, I paused my packing and smiled at the thought of another adventure underway. How I never thought I’d be the protagonist of my favorite books—jetting off to some new place, exploring the world one airport terminal at a time. I always thought of myself as the outcast, the awkward one, the weird one, the trauma-ridden background character in an epic story—never to experience anything more than my hometown and the turmoil I internalized, because “others have it worse.” I created an inescapable world in my mind, believing that talking about our wounds was like throwing salt at those with deeper cuts.

How wrong I was.

Only now, as an adult, do I realize that every piece of my weirdness, every scar from my past, is why my story is so uniquely mine. It’s why the sprinkles of joy and love are ingrained in my memory. It’s why I carry a wanderlust that fills me to my core, brimming with anticipation and excitement. I rarely pause during the bad days to look back at each chapter—at the mountains I’ve conquered, and the ones that left me bruised and broken on the rocks below. I forget that those pages led me here—to this moment.

Maybe that’s why books are so beautiful: they lead you exactly to where you are meant to go.

And maybe that’s why life is so terrifyingly lovely—I have no idea where it’s leading me.

My story isn’t finished yet.

I’m still writing each page, unsure of my next move.

I’m still in my coming-of-age story.

Frankly, I may always be here—

and I’m perfectly okay with that.