Travel culture loves the phrase “finding yourself.” And I believed in that version of travel for a long time. But eventually I started questioning why movement felt so emotionally necessary to me in the first place.

One of the loneliest parts of traveling had nothing to do with being abroad. It happened after I came home. Somewhere between unpacking laundry and answering “How was your trip?” for the fifth time, I realized certain experiences become difficult to explain once they’re over.

I started traveling during the rise of social media travel culture. At first, it felt inspiring. But somewhere along the way, travel stopped feeling discovered and started feeling pre-curated.

People love romanticizing solo travel for women. The freedom. The confidence. The cinematic version of wandering through foreign cities completely untethered. But what people talk about far less openly is the constant awareness underneath all of it.

Travel humbled my relationship with beauty in ways I never expected. Somewhere between humidity, long transit days, unfamiliar cities, and living out of one bag, I became less interested in looking perfect and more interested in feeling like myself.

Some of my favorite travel memories begin before I ever leave the hotel room — music playing softly, makeup scattered across a bathroom counter, the city lighting up outside while I slowly get ready for the night ahead.