I used to think movement was freedom.
For almost 2 years I got to hop from one country to another.
Treating it as my base.. or my own sense of home.
But no one warned me that every border crossing would peel a piece of me away.
That loving a place means mourning it later.
That you can be surrounded by beauty and still ache when it’s time to let go.
A laugh. A routine. A version of me I already miss.
So… I’m learning to grieve quietly.
To stay soft without breaking.
To find little soul classes, painting, pottery, Balkan dancing ~
That remind me: I still exist. Even here. Even now.
Even if I’m not rooted.
