Tag: family

They say it’s not about the places—it’s about the people you meet along the way. I didn’t quite understand what that meant until now. Looking back over the years, I’ve come to see how deeply intertwined my path has been with the people I’ve crossed paths with. Somehow, every encounter felt pre-written, like puzzle pieces scattered across the world, only fitting together in hindsight.

I was recently reflecting on my first time leaving home, when I moved away for college. That initial separation from everything familiar was softened by the people I met—people who, without knowing it, mirrored the most intimate corners of my life.

There was a friend whose brother, like mine, carried the unbearable weight of living up to his father’s expectations. He passed away just a year ago. When I also lost my brother to suicide, I remembered our conversations—how we once whispered to each other that maybe our brothers gave up because they saw no point in trying to meet standards they never chose.

Another friend’s brother struggled with addiction. So did mine. We talked about rehab, resilience, and the silent burden of being both the caretaker and the one expected to bring pride to the family. She, like me, longed for the day we could be held by a healthy masculine energy—so we could finally allow ourselves to soften.

There was someone else who spent her entire life being compared to her older sister. I knew that story all too well. We shared quiet confessions about sibling rivalry stirred by parental expectations, and how—deep down—we still rooted for our sisters’ success, knowing it wouldn’t take away from our own.

One friend seemed to attract lightning—figuratively, of course. Tragedy after tragedy, yet she kept walking forward. No regrets. No questions. Just an acceptance that life is unpredictable, and the only way through is forward.

There was a friend, who lost her mother at birth. Another, who grew up in the cracks between two parents who couldn’t find peace but still managed to make peace with the situation.

“I remember it clearly—one quiet day, I realised something: I am running into all of the people I am running away from.”

Every country I’ve stepped into, every new adventure, Was I exploring or escaping? If I’m honest, most of the time I was in flight mode. But here’s the twist—while running, I kept bumping into the very stories I was trying to outrun. Life, as it turns out, doesn’t let you off the hook that easily.

And now? I’m tired of running. Not in a defeated way—more in a brave way. For the first time, I feel capable of staying still. Not to fight. Not to flee. Just to be.

Yes, thirty countries is a shiny number. But behind that number are moments of loneliness, learning, and longing. I don’t regret a thing. Sometimes I wish I had travelled with a different purpose—not away from something, but toward something.

People see my photos and think, “She’s living the dream.” And maybe I am. I’ve learned how to alchemize pain into purpose, to turn the mess into meaning. But the truth is, I’ve often been the observer. Close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to not get burned. It gave me perspective, sure—but not belonging.

And yet, I believe none of this was accidental. God—or the universe, or whatever you believe in—placed these people in my life like lanterns on a foggy path. We’ve shared a kind of quiet camaraderie, not always visible, but deeply felt. And for that, I’m grateful.

So, if you’ve been on the run too—emotionally, physically, metaphorically—I hope you know that even the flight has a purpose. Just don’t forget to pause once in a while. Because even when you’re running, you’re still being led. And when you finally stop, when you finally turn around, you might also notice the people who shaped you right there beside you.

My friends in Egypt taught me what drive and diligence truly look like. There was a fire in the way they lived—an energy that was quietly contagious. One conversation still stays with me. A friend asked, “Do you go to bed feeling the good kind of tired?’” The kind that comes from pouring yourself into something meaningful, from inching closer to your purpose. That question changed the way I looked at effort. Until then, I had mostly done things for approval—for the praise, the gold stars, the need to be a “good daughter”. But this was different. This was about doing something that fills you up, not just your report card.

My roommates during that time played a quiet, steady role in shaping who I was becoming. One of them—my Italian roommate—introduced me to eggplant parmigiana. Preparing it was a long, slow process, layered and intentional, but the results were unforgettable. She taught me that food isn’t just about feeding the body—it’s about nourishing the soul. I finally understood the “Eat” part of “Eat, Pray, Love”. Just like Julia Roberts found herself in the folds of pizza in Naples, I found something in that dish—comfort, care, and the joy of cooking without rush. Growing up, food had always been there, but I only ever ate to fuel myself. That year, I learned to eat to feel alive.

Another roommate had a quiet but lasting impact on me. We used to walk to work together every morning, always getting there ahead of time—her Germanness rubbed off on me faster than I expected. She carried herself with a kind of calm discipline that was both inspiring and grounding. What struck me most was how she stayed motivated and respectful, even while navigating the nuances of a new work culture. She led with quiet confidence and a deeply practical mindset, doing everything she could to reach her goals—never loud, never boastful, just steady and sure.

Over the years, I’ve come to meet people who have taught me some of the most important lessons of my life—how to live with intention, how to love with presence, how to rest without guilt, and how to keep going, even when the road feels impossibly long. These weren’t always grand lessons taught in classrooms or through books. Most came quietly, through conversations in kitchens, shared silences on park benches, and the gentle consistency of friendship in faraway places.

And now, I carry those lessons with me—not just as memories, but as reminders of what it means to truly live. Not just survive. Not just perform. But live, fully and wholly, in connection—with myself, and with others.