I've Never Been Here Before

on trust and becoming my own home three months into living nomadically

I’ve been here before.

Mallorca, Spain, that is.

On a solo trip back in 2023.

I’ve been here before.

So I thought I knew how I would feel.

Ripe with joy, filled with curiosity and ready for adventure.

I’ve been here before.

So I thought the beauty of the mountains would ease the ache of my heart, the grief of a life I no longer live, nor want to go back to at the moment.

I thought being here would be enough to pull me up, shake me, and remind me how lucky I am.

How lucky I am, to live wherever I am. To go wherever I want to go, whenever I want to.

To be my own home.

But the truth is..

I’ve never been here before.

I have never fully trusted that I am my own home. My own safe place.

I’ve never known a place that can remind me of how lucky I am.

I’ve never known anyone or anything that could do that better than I could, for myself.

Before, travel was an escape from a life I lived at home. It was a novel, fresh experience where I could step into a different version of myself. One free of responsibility and accountability.

Now, being here (or wherever I am) is my life.

I’m not running, I’m not living differently. I’m fully here.

And with that, comes all the feelings I used to leave at home.

The streets feel familiar, the restaurants have the same menus, and the mountains haven’t moved.

But I’ve never been here before.

Because I’ve never been this version of me here.

My life is completely different than it was when I took that solo trip three years ago.

I’m finding pieces of myself everywhere I go, while simultaneously letting other pieces go.

When I first arrived, I kept wondering why I didn’t feel the way I thought I would.

Why wasn’t I overflowing with gratitude?

Why didn’t this beautiful place instantly quiet whatever felt unsettled inside of me?

I think I expected it to remind me how lucky I am.

Instead, I was reminded of everything I still can’t control.

The future, our timeline, the desire to know where we’ll eventually call home, when life will feel more settled, what comes next.

I still catch myself thinking.. If I could just know the plan, maybe I’ll feel peace.

But I can’t stop thinking that that is an illusion. No one really knows.

Some of us are just better storytellers.

We convince ourselves that buying the house, planning our baby’s due date, moving cities somehow guarantees peace.

I call bullshit.

As if certainty has ever been promised to any of us (it hasn’t).

That’s why this trip feels different.

There isn’t another version of me waiting back home anymore.

There isn’t a life I’m taking a vacation from.

This is it. Every version is here with me. Even the parts still learning to trust.

Any place on this planet can be beautiful in its own way. Beauty exists everywhere waiting to be noticed.

But what I’ve come to understand is that what I see, what I feel, and what stays with me is shaped less by the place itself and more by what I’m carrying inside.

If I arrive with openness, curiosity, and peace, even the most ordinary surroundings begin to glow with meaning. And if I arrive restless, disconnected, or searching for something outside of myself to fix what’s within, even the most breathtaking view will feel empty.

There is no guarantee that I will feel the way I expect to.

So maybe I was wrong. I haven’t been searching for a place.

I’ve been searching for the version of myself that trusts life without needing to know what’s next.

I’ve never been here before.

xx

Stay Lighthearted,

Chelsey