Hi Reader,
One afternoon in Bali, my writing assignment was a single blade of grass.
I lay on the ground and stared at it for a long time. The color where it met the soil. The way it bent when the breeze moved through. How it felt between my fingers.
I was there for a writing retreat, my first solo trip outside the country. Each day we were asked to write the details of an experience. One day it was that blade of grass. Another day, a busy farmers market. Another, a coming-of-age ceremony.
My very first solo trip had come twenty years earlier. I was in my thirties, my kids were still young, and I flew to Las Vegas for a coaching conference. It felt delightfully decadent to sleep through the night and not cook a single meal.
At the time, I thought the trip was simply a little break.
Looking back, I realize it was something more.
It was the first time I discovered that traveling alone asks something different of you. You make decisions based on what you want rather than what others want. You solve the unexpected problems and grow more confident each time you do. You learn to trust yourself.
Bali was something else entirely. Everything was new. The food, the customs, the language. I learned how to convert U.S. dollars into Indonesian rupiah, how to barter respectfully in local markets, and why those customs mattered within the culture.
And in a lovely twist, I met my best friend of a dozen years on that trip. We lived in the same town back home. We had to travel halfway around the world to find each other.
Trying new things is exciting, and it almost always comes with a little uncertainty. Sometimes that uncertainty feels like curiosity. Sometimes it feels like anxiety.
When you're traveling alone, you don't have much choice but to sit with both.
What I've found is that sitting with both, the excitement and the unease, has a way of centering me. Both feelings belong, and both are normal. I've come to believe that's one of the greatest gifts travel offers us.
Every unfamiliar street, every meal you can't quite pronounce, every conversation that requires hand gestures instead of words teaches you that uncertainty can be navigated.
Each experience quietly expands your comfort zone.
Over time, your mind develops a reference point that says, I've figured out unfamiliar things before. I can figure this out, too.
That confidence comes home with you.
When life throws an unexpected change your way, when life is lifeing, you've already practiced adapting. And when you're trying to solve a difficult problem, your mind is more open to possibilities because you've experienced different ways of living, thinking, and being. Researchers have found that people who adapted to life in another culture tend to show greater creativity when solving problems.
That writing assignment became a practice I've carried through all of my travels. It's one of my favorite ways to arrive somewhere. It slows me down and settles me into the present moment.
Wherever I am, I sit for five or ten minutes and write down what I see, hear, smell, feel, and taste. It grounds me in the place, and it centers me in myself.
You can try this right where you are. This week, choose one small, ordinary moment: your morning coffee, a walk around the block, the view from your kitchen window. Give it five minutes, one for each of the senses, of your full attention and write down what each of your senses notices.
The greatest lessons from Bali had very little to do with travel itself.
I learned to pay attention and to become comfortable with not knowing.
And perhaps most importantly, I learned that when we intentionally step outside what feels familiar, we almost always return seeing our own lives with fresh eyes.
When I came home, I saw my own town differently. I did things in new ways, appreciated things differently. A blade of grass had taught me how to look.
Whether your next adventure is halfway around the world or simply something you've never tried before, I hope you'll give yourself permission to be a beginner.
I'd love to hear what you notice. Hit reply and tell me.