When grief tried to consume me, I decided to consume macarons in Paris instead.
If you’ve stumbled onto this blog hoping to find the best free activities in Barcelona or where to catch the dreamiest sunset in Rome, you’re in the right place. But before we get to the itineraries, mishaps, and the occasional spiritually charged confession, it feels right to start with why I began traveling in the first place and how it changed my life in a beautiful, unbelievable way.
After drowning in grief for years, I transformed my life in ways my former self could have never imagined. I’ve prayed to the moon in Portugal. I’ve stretched out on a sacrificial ritual platform in the Peruvian mountains. I’ve cried over paintings in Madrid and experienced psychedelic love in the English countryside. But those stories can wait. This one begins in a much darker place.
I found my passion for travel at the lowest point of my life. My father had passed at an early age, my decade-long relationship had ended, and COVID had locked me inside both my house and my head swirling with memories of the past. The world around me felt dim, fittingly matching my pessimistic perception. I felt abandoned by the men I loved, by society, and even by God.
For years I tried to claw back the life I used to have, like I was sliding off a cliff and scrambling for roots that kept breaking off in my hands. Eventually, I came to understand that you can spend your whole life trying to resurrect an old version of yourself or you can put that energy into creating someone new. The ease of depression is comfortable; the decision to be happy, and to prioritize that happiness above all else, is one of the most difficult conflicts the human spirit encounters.
Therapists tried to medicate me into oblivion. Spiritualists tried to upsell me on enlightenment. Grief groups unintentionally dragged me deeper into their collective sorrow. The urge to travel the world mercifully offered a different path out of the fog.
A family member once told me something I’ll never forget: that the dead can still see the world through our eyes. That thought struck me like lightning. If my dad was watching, he didn’t need to see the four brown walls of my room or watch me rewatch Outlander for the ninth time. He deserved better. So did I.
I was hopeless, jobless, childless, and tired of searching for peace at the bottom of a bag of weed gummies. As the pandemic faded into the rearview, I began detaching from the life that no longer suited me. I sold almost everything I owned – remnants of a past self that I was finally willing to close the door on. I moved back in with my widowed mother for six months, rebuilt my foundation, and carved out a career as a freelance book editor and writer.
And then, one day, quietly and without ceremony, I booked a one-way ticket to Barcelona with a world of possibilities promised in my near future.
Grief feels like cancer of the soul, but every ancient cobblestone I stepped on felt like part of the cure. Every new city made me feel small in the best possible way; the world was still vast and generous, even when my life previously felt narrow and unforgiving.
There’s something about walking through ancient streets, tasting flavors that have survived centuries, and standing before a landscape that doesn’t know your name. It humbles you. It expands you. It weaves you with every soul who has ever passed through that same space.
My Advice? See It All. Experience Everything.
You never know what moment – a cathedral, a cute stranger, a street musician – might set your soul on fire again.
And if grief ever tries to swallow you whole, I recommend a change of scenery. I assure you, crying into a bowl of fresh pasta sitting by the canals of Venice will give you the unexpected perspective you need.