The older I get, the less interested I am in proving how adventurous I can be. I still love movement, spontaneity, and unfamiliar places — I just don’t confuse chaos with freedom as much as I used to.

Mexico was the first trip where I fully allowed myself to slow down. Instead of trying to optimize every moment, I spent my days drifting between cenotes, tacos, jungle heat, beach towns, and long quiet mornings — and honestly, I think I loved the Riviera Maya more because of it.

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 suddenly fragile in a way I had never considered before.

Some people you meet while traveling never become part of your real life, but they stay attached to a version of you anyway — a city, a night, a conversation, a brief moment of closeness that mattered even though it didn’t last.

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 honestly, it was everything surrounding it that made the trip unforgettable.

Guatemala felt raw in the best possible way — volcano hikes, dusty shuttle rides, freezing nights, sore legs, and lava exploding into the sky while a group of exhausted strangers sat silently watching from across the mountain.