Peru felt bigger than I expected in every possible way—bigger mountains, deeper history, stronger emotions, and landscapes that constantly reminded me how small I actually was. Machu Picchu was incredible, but it was everything surrounding it that made the journey unforgettable.

Montreal in the fall felt like cold air, smoked meat sandwiches eaten at crowded counters, cobblestone streets after dark, fresh Portuguese natas, and a city that seemed to settle into itself once the temperature dropped.

There are certain moments in history where you can physically feel the world dividing itself into a before and an after. Watching airports empty and cities fall silent almost overnight made travel—and movement itself—feel unexpectedly fragile.

Puerto Rico never felt like a place I was discovering for the first time. Somewhere between the mofongo, the ocean air, loud music, strong coffee, and the feeling of seeing pieces of my family reflected back at me culturally, the island felt less like a vacation and more like recognition.

Volunteering at a children’s orphanage in Vietnam taught me something I wasn’t expecting. We didn’t share a language, and I’ve never naturally gravitated toward children, yet over time I realized how much human connection exists beyond words.

Nothing really prepares you for backpacking through Southeast Asia the first time—not the humidity, the overnight buses, the chaos of the traffic, or the unexpected freedom of realizing everything you need fits inside one backpack.