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Here’s a cringey-sappy story.
When I was 19, I wrote an ekphrastic poem for class on ‘The Creation of Adam’. The poem’s themes explored one’s worth, self-doubt, and the idea of craving the intangible. I described Adam’s hand as exhausted and searching. He wanted to reach perfection(God) but always came up short.
A year later, I took time off of college to go study art on a small Greek island. Our school spent the first month in Italy, soaking up as much art history as we could. My 20 other classmates and I were fortunate enough to be allowed first access into the Sistine Chapel for a few minutes. It was early morning, right before it opened to the general public. I can still hear all of our footsteps slowly patting the floor. We stood there in sheer wonder. To intimately witness such a work of art is a gift of a lifetime.

I got this tattoo a few days ago. The Creation of Adam. I chose this tattoo for two reasons. I met one of my best friends at that small Greek art school 3 years ago. She witnessed this masterpiece by my side. The memory of a million lifetimes. I’m so grateful.
I chose this tattoo for another reason. The Adam I constructed in the poem was me. I’ve felt that way for far too long. I’ve been constantly searching for a place to call home, or a sign for what to do with my life, or something to believe in and look forward to. But no matter what, it seems I can’t ever meet my own high standards. I never think it’s good enough. How pointless is that method of thinking? We have such limited time on Earth, so why would any of us waste that time hating ourselves or believing we are a failure or whatever bad thing we tell ourselves? We are worth so much than that. It’s about time to believe it.

To my grandparents

Idk if you’ve heard but social media can suck sometimes and people can be faker than vegancheese. Hope everyone had something to smile about today. I’m trying to change my pace of this life.
Anyways.
Here’s some art I made inspired by Van Gogh and the south of France. yep. Ok. God bless. Whatever! Bye!

Hi, my name is kristen. I’m still alive and here is a mini update. I am flourishing and changing in immeasurable ways. I’m meeting new people and developing bonds that cannot be easily severed. I am reconnecting with my family and also with old friends. I’ve accepted that other friendships dissipated because of distance and time. A lot has changed. A lot hasn’t changed.
I know how short and ephemeral life is, as most of us do. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. Hope everyone knows they are worthy of life and love.

Today, a child fell on his side on the street while we were walking in the rain. He fell in slow-motion, frozen. He didn’t even move his arms. It was almost funny. His parents picked him up as he was still stuck, shocked he fell over like that, almost robotic. That reminded me of something.

Last week, I helped walk a man home who’d had too much to drink. He’d fallen off his bike and laid in the street with the bike on top of him. I biked over to him quickly and helped him get up. His forehead was bleeding. He was beyond drunk. I didn’t know if he was okay or if I should call someone. He kept saying he was fine with half-opened eyes. I had him repeat his address and name and age twice and it seemed that each time it got easier for him. What didn’t get easier was walking. I walked with him while he took himself and his bike 2 more blocks until he was home. We walked back in silence for 5 minutes as he slowly staggered along with me. After a long silence, he stopped in the middle of the bike lane and stared at me.
-you okay?
“I’m 25.”
-okay?
“It shouldn’t be like this.”
———————————————
We, as young humans beings, put so much emphasis on some made-up internal timeline that we all think we should abide by. The only thing that particular timeline accomplishes is the addition of increased insecurity, guilt, and shame. We have to be okay with where we’re at in this life and that can be the hardest thing sometimes. If you never finished college, never went, or went to 4 colleges and counting- none of that matters. If you went to college and loved it and finished, or switched majors a few times and still graduated, if you graduated and don’t have a job or don’t have a job in the area you want-it doesn’t matter. What matters is our own timeline for ourselves and how we actually feel about how we process them. I hope you don’t waste major parts of this timeline feeling guilty if you didn’t fulfill some made-up goal. I know I have. I hope no one else does. In reality, the main goal is to stay alive and find something for yourself that makes you want to get out of bed in the morning. The timeline doesn’t exist. Also, there is always someone to pick us up when we fall.

I haven’t stopped singing Galway Girl since we got here but she still likes me I think.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

This is a long post but I was graced with the presence of my mother in July. We drove from Barcelona to Paris, retracing the last few years of Van Gogh’s life. We stopped in various places in the south of France and bought baguettes at bakeries. We used butter knives from gas stations to spread on butter and jam we swiped from our 3 euro “All-You-Can-Eat” breakfast from the infamous Hotel F1 chain. We passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender. At times, we drove without speaking, marveling at the white cows grazing on the forest-green hills to our left and to our right was a rose and violet-colored sky washing over everything. Bill Withers and NeedToBreathe played for miles while we tried to take in the amount of trees that were different than the ones at home. The trees are always different.

In Paris, we sat in a bookshop that once sat Fitzgerald, Stein, and Hemingway. We experienced the messiness and cheer of Bastille Days and sat at an overpriced bar to watch France win the World Cup. Rarely is energy that contagious. My favorite memory is sitting and laughing with mom while French news filled the background, eating cold pizza, and calling our family back home.
Our last major stop was in Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh died and was buried. We cried silently in the room where he took his last breath- this genius who died thinking he was a failure. We walked around the wheat fields surrounding the town... that day had the best clouds, something that Vincent would’ve loved to paint. It would have been another masterpiece. We stopped to sit in a patch of Earth that held a lone poppy- and we knew he sat in that same spot once.

The time with my mom went by so fast I could barely process anything. She flew home over a month ago now and I still can’t even take in all that we saw.
Something that Van Gogh wrote in one of his letters was, “how difficult it is to be so simple” and we talked about that for a while. To live, one needs very little. It’s hard to remember that these days. But what I know right now is that I’m so grateful for my mom, my best friend, and I miss her tremendously.

One of my greatest passions is making people happy, in particular, I love to make people laugh. But if I’m being honest, I know I just want people to suffer a little less. Because this life is hard and suffering is inevitable. And I know I have only seen and experienced a small percentage of what others may have, but I still want to take some grief out of their backpacks. I hope it’ll feel lighter for even a few seconds. But at least those steps will hurt a little less.
.
.
.
A reoccurring subject that came up between strangers we met along the Camino was grief, or at least forms of it. To me, the backpack these pilgrims carry across countries are a physical representation of the grief we all bare. Some bags are heavier, some are lighter, others are dirty, or broken, or distorted... but few actually look pristine. Even if their backpack is okay and looking fine, the person might be walking with 6 blisters on each foot. The cliché point is: you never know what someone is going through.
.
.
.
I am beyond privileged and blessed to be in the position I am in and I’m so grateful. I’m grateful for my family and friends, the help I’ve received from them and strangers along this journey, and I am even grateful for those that haven’t supported my decision or contacted me in months.
It has not always been easy, I’ve had many days of complete loneliness and doubt, but I realize that it comes with my choices.
Also, I know that there are people here that can take a pair of socks out of my backpack, to help make the walk a little more bearable.

One of my greatest passions is making people happy, in particular, I love to make people laugh. But if I’m being honest, I know I just want people to suffer a little less. Because this life is hard and suffering is inevitable. And I know I have only seen and experienced a small percentage of what others may have, but I still want to take some grief out of their backpacks. I hope it’ll feel lighter for even a few seconds. But at least those steps will hurt a little less.
.
.
.
A reoccurring subject that came up between strangers we met along the Camino was grief, or at least forms of it. To me, the backpack these pilgrims carry across countries are a physical representation of the grief we all bare. Some bags are heavier, some are lighter, others are dirty, or broken, or distorted... but few actually look pristine. Even if their backpack is okay and looking fine, the person might be walking with 6 blisters on each foot. The cliché point is: you never know what someone is going through.
.
.
.
I am beyond privileged and blessed to be in the position I am in and I’m so grateful. I’m grateful for my family and friends, the help I’ve received from them and strangers along this journey, and I am even grateful for those that haven’t supported my decision or contacted me in months.
It has not always been easy, I’ve had many days of complete loneliness and doubt, but I realize that it comes with my choices.
Also, I know that there are people here that can take a pair of socks out of my backpack, to help make the walk a little more bearable.

One of my greatest passions is making people happy, in particular, I love to make people laugh. But if I’m being honest, I know I just want people to suffer a little less. Because this life is hard and suffering is inevitable. And I know I have only seen and experienced a small percentage of what others may have, but I still want to take some grief out of their backpacks. I hope it’ll feel lighter for even a few seconds. But at least those steps will hurt a little less.
.
.
.
A reoccurring subject that came up between strangers we met along the Camino was grief, or at least forms of it. To me, the backpack these pilgrims carry across countries are a physical representation of the grief we all bare. Some bags are heavier, some are lighter, others are dirty, or broken, or distorted... but few actually look pristine. Even if their backpack is okay and looking fine, the person might be walking with 6 blisters on each foot. The cliché point is: you never know what someone is going through.
.
.
.
I am beyond privileged and blessed to be in the position I am in and I’m so grateful. I’m grateful for my family and friends, the help I’ve received from them and strangers along this journey, and I am even grateful for those that haven’t supported my decision or contacted me in months.
It has not always been easy, I’ve had many days of complete loneliness and doubt, but I realize that it comes with my choices.
Also, I know that there are people here that can take a pair of socks out of my backpack, to help make the walk a little more bearable.

One of my greatest passions is making people happy, in particular, I love to make people laugh. But if I’m being honest, I know I just want people to suffer a little less. Because this life is hard and suffering is inevitable. And I know I have only seen and experienced a small percentage of what others may have, but I still want to take some grief out of their backpacks. I hope it’ll feel lighter for even a few seconds. But at least those steps will hurt a little less.
.
.
.
A reoccurring subject that came up between strangers we met along the Camino was grief, or at least forms of it. To me, the backpack these pilgrims carry across countries are a physical representation of the grief we all bare. Some bags are heavier, some are lighter, others are dirty, or broken, or distorted... but few actually look pristine. Even if their backpack is okay and looking fine, the person might be walking with 6 blisters on each foot. The cliché point is: you never know what someone is going through.
.
.
.
I am beyond privileged and blessed to be in the position I am in and I’m so grateful. I’m grateful for my family and friends, the help I’ve received from them and strangers along this journey, and I am even grateful for those that haven’t supported my decision or contacted me in months.
It has not always been easy, I’ve had many days of complete loneliness and doubt, but I realize that it comes with my choices.
Also, I know that there are people here that can take a pair of socks out of my backpack, to help make the walk a little more bearable.

Through is the place.

Right now, Erin is in the same top bunk bed as me because we got here too late and this was the only bed left. We walked 19 miles today and so far have lost one phone, one cardigan, and one skirt. We ate white buns dipped in Italian salad dressing for dinner. Not sure what tomorrow will bring... hopefully not another snorer in the room with us.

Right now, Erin is in the same top bunk bed as me because we got here too late and this was the only bed left. We walked 19 miles today and so far have lost one phone, one cardigan, and one skirt. We ate white buns dipped in Italian salad dressing for dinner. Not sure what tomorrow will bring... hopefully not another snorer in the room with us.

See ya soon Turkey.

This stunning human is Elaine. She is someone who’s given me hope after my weeks of solitude. Actually, if I’m being honest, it was mostly loneliness.
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I first heard of this girl a few hours before I was going to live with her here in Yalikavak. She texted me asking questions about the Workaway and we talked a bit. Soon, we found out that we’re both moving to the Netherlands in the fall; starting school completely over after dropping out after 3 years (and transfers) later. It’s weird to meet someone and instantly become comfortable. She laughs at my Midwestern accent (even when I’m not obviously forcing it for comedic relief), she wakes up 4 feet away from me to bells ringing and Turkish words flying up at us from the kitchen (most likely telling us to set up the tables), and we’ve tried 4 different desserts at 4 different places. But mostly, we talk about life, particularly how art and creating gives our lives some sort of purpose. It’s hard to find people like that; people so empathetic because of the crapstorms they’ve been through, people so spontaneous and ready to explore foreign lands because they are people who, like you, feel they never truly belong anywhere...(though we also have the unexplained itch and to see and do more)... and lastly, the people who are always pushing those they love to be the best they can be.
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Today, she said something along the lines of, “I don’t know if I believe in fate, but I think we were meant to be friends. There are few people you meet where you feel like you’ve known in them another life. But my friend, I know we are connected somehow.”
And man, am I grateful for that connection.

This stunning human is Elaine. She is someone who’s given me hope after my weeks of solitude. Actually, if I’m being honest, it was mostly loneliness.
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I first heard of this girl a few hours before I was going to live with her here in Yalikavak. She texted me asking questions about the Workaway and we talked a bit. Soon, we found out that we’re both moving to the Netherlands in the fall; starting school completely over after dropping out after 3 years (and transfers) later. It’s weird to meet someone and instantly become comfortable. She laughs at my Midwestern accent (even when I’m not obviously forcing it for comedic relief), she wakes up 4 feet away from me to bells ringing and Turkish words flying up at us from the kitchen (most likely telling us to set up the tables), and we’ve tried 4 different desserts at 4 different places. But mostly, we talk about life, particularly how art and creating gives our lives some sort of purpose. It’s hard to find people like that; people so empathetic because of the crapstorms they’ve been through, people so spontaneous and ready to explore foreign lands because they are people who, like you, feel they never truly belong anywhere...(though we also have the unexplained itch and to see and do more)... and lastly, the people who are always pushing those they love to be the best they can be.
.
.
.

Today, she said something along the lines of, “I don’t know if I believe in fate, but I think we were meant to be friends. There are few people you meet where you feel like you’ve known in them another life. But my friend, I know we are connected somehow.”
And man, am I grateful for that connection.

This stunning human is Elaine. She is someone who’s given me hope after my weeks of solitude. Actually, if I’m being honest, it was mostly loneliness.
.
.
.

I first heard of this girl a few hours before I was going to live with her here in Yalikavak. She texted me asking questions about the Workaway and we talked a bit. Soon, we found out that we’re both moving to the Netherlands in the fall; starting school completely over after dropping out after 3 years (and transfers) later. It’s weird to meet someone and instantly become comfortable. She laughs at my Midwestern accent (even when I’m not obviously forcing it for comedic relief), she wakes up 4 feet away from me to bells ringing and Turkish words flying up at us from the kitchen (most likely telling us to set up the tables), and we’ve tried 4 different desserts at 4 different places. But mostly, we talk about life, particularly how art and creating gives our lives some sort of purpose. It’s hard to find people like that; people so empathetic because of the crapstorms they’ve been through, people so spontaneous and ready to explore foreign lands because they are people who, like you, feel they never truly belong anywhere...(though we also have the unexplained itch and to see and do more)... and lastly, the people who are always pushing those they love to be the best they can be.
.
.
.

Today, she said something along the lines of, “I don’t know if I believe in fate, but I think we were meant to be friends. There are few people you meet where you feel like you’ve known in them another life. But my friend, I know we are connected somehow.”
And man, am I grateful for that connection.