I was looking forward to writing this reflection even before I left for Spain. Now what that says about me, you might be able to tell me. As many of you may know (or might not), the reason for this trip didn’t come from the most ideal circumstances. Spain was supposed to be the place where so many of my aspirations, dreams, and fights would come full circle — the “happily ever after” I thought I was working toward. But things fell apart just when I believed they were finally falling into place.
And yet, with all that unraveling, I made a decision that would shape everything that followed: I went anyway. Not because I was ready. Not because I had healed. But because maybe — just maybe — my nervous system didn’t need more reflection, more awareness, more understanding. Maybe it needed new experiences. A different reality to anchor into. So I packed my bags and went to Spain.
This is not an Eat-Pray-Love story. It wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine. I cried — a lot. I cried for the expectations that never met reality, for the what-ifs, for the alternate version of my life that never came to be. I walked the streets of Barcelona imagining how different it would have looked if things had gone according to plan. But slowly — quietly — something shifted. The emotions didn’t disappear, but they softened. They became less sharp, more integrated. They reassured me that even in heartbreak, I had made the right choice.
Spain is, without question, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Yet those first two days were hard. My body was tired, my hormones were doing their thing, and every corner seemed to whisper, “You shouldn’t be here.” But I stayed. I kept going. And little by little, the world opened up again.
I won’t lie — I was determined to see it all, do it all, check off every line on my itinerary. But the cost of that mindset (and the literal cost of a few spontaneous taxis) made me pause. There were moments of chaos — missing a bus in a small town an hour from Barcelona, paying over 200 euros for a cab, ripping my dress, dragging overweight luggage through cobblestone streets. But what trip would be complete without a little turbulence?
Through it all, I found rhythm. I found stillness in café corners, drinking lukewarm cappuccinos and eating croissants that were never quite warm enough. I read, I wrote, I watched life move around me. I met strangers who became small stories in my memory — like Simon, the kind music producer who paid for my taxi across the city. I swam in the Mediterranean, wandered through centuries-old cathedrals, and walked paths worn smooth by millions before me. And somewhere in between the laughter and the tears, the solitude and the noise, I realized: I wasn’t just surviving. I was living.
Now that I’m back, Spain already feels like a lifetime ago — but its imprint remains. The trip didn’t heal me, not in the traditional sense. What it did was remind me that healing isn’t always about closure; sometimes it’s about continuing. I’ve spent years trying to make certain things work — relationships, patterns, expectations — often at great cost to my own peace. And yet, I’ve learned that easing out of what doesn’t serve us doesn’t always mean walking away abruptly. Sometimes, it’s a gentle loosening, a steady choosing of ourselves, over and over again.
I am proud of myself — deeply proud — for doing something that once terrified me. For showing up for myself in a moment that could have easily swallowed me whole. I’ve faced heartbreak, loss, and my own enabling patterns. And while I once chased perfection, I’ve learned that wholeness comes from acceptance, not completion.
A few days ago, my niece told me she sees me as an adult who “has her life together.” I smiled and told her the truth: I don’t always. She looked at me with that innocent knowing only children have and said, “Oh, I know. I’ve heard you crying in your room.” That moment — her honesty, my vulnerability — reminded me that authenticity doesn’t need performance. Who we are always shows, whether we try to hide it or not.
So here’s where I’ve landed: I am no longer searching for resolution. I’m choosing evolution. There is no ideal version of me waiting at the end of this journey. Every season of me — the lost, the grieving, the laughing, the loving — is part of the woman I have always wanted to become. I am stepping into this next chapter with equal parts fear and excitement, but mostly with gratitude. For the places I’ve seen. For the lessons that hurt. For the strength that found me when I thought I had none left.
And as always, I’ll be here — sharing, reflecting, growing — right alongside you.
Spain may now exist only in the photographs I took and the stories I tell, but the version of me who stood on those cobblestone streets still lives somewhere within. She is the one who reminded me that courage and self-trust are not feelings — they’re nervous system responses we have to teach ourselves over time. When we step into discomfort and stay regulated long enough to see it through, our body learns a new language: safety without certainty. I think that’s what healing really is — not the absence of pain, but the capacity to stay present with it until it softens into wisdom. Every tear shed on that trip was my brain rewiring itself to understand that I could feel grief, loss, joy, and awe — all at once — and still be okay.
Since coming back, I’ve realized that growth is not a linear ascent but a psychological recalibration — the process of matching your internal world to the reality you’re creating. It’s learning to stop intellectualizing your emotions long enough to feel them. It’s refusing to pathologize your humanity. I’m learning that peace doesn’t mean being unbothered; it means being self-regulated amidst what once would have broken you. I share this not as a therapist trying to inspire, but as a human reminding you: your nervous system can handle more than you think. And maybe, like me, you don’t need more time to understand yourself — you need more moments that show you who you’ve already become.
