Leralara

The world has been my classroom, and I’ve circled it 132 times.

In my wanderings, I’ve discovered a paradox: the farther I roam, the closer I feel to home. Yet, in the streets where I grew up, I’m a stranger.

They say no one is a prophet in their own land. How true. The eyes that watched us grow can’t see who we’ve become. Their memories are chains, their expectations, prisons. I fled, lacking the courage to break free while standing still.

My feet have touched the soil of South Africa, Greece, Uruguay. Each place a revelation, each journey a rebirth. And in every corner of the world, I saw the same dance: families hoping, workers dreaming, souls seeking refuge from life’s harshness in simple pleasures. We’re all pilgrims, aren’t we? Searching for an arrival, yearning for an escape. Sometimes, in our quest, we lose ourselves, becoming shadows of what others expect.

Spain taught me to savor late dinners. The Dutch showed me tolerance’s face. Yet America’s ghost still whispers guilt when I dare to rest midday.

In these times of walls and isolation, I question my journeys’ worth. But then I remember: they’ve sculpted my soul, carved my understanding.

And then came the greatest lesson, simple yet profound: home is not a place, but a person. With the right companion, a crowded hostel becomes a sanctuary, a foreign street transforms into a cherished memory. This truth has given me new eyes. I look at my hometown and see not what was, but what could be. The change isn’t in its streets or faces, but in my heart.

The world is vast and full of wonders. But the real miracle? Finding home in a glance, a touch, a shared silence. Even in the place you thought you knew too well to love again.

Best,

Lara