I’ve been in Bled for a week and a half, but I haven’t spent any time at the lake.
There’s a version of me that would’ve hiked every trail by now. Chased sunrises and stories. But that version isn’t leading right now.
Instead, I’ve been sitting with the friction. The stillness. The guilt that creeps in when I don’t do what I’m “supposed to” while traveling. When my camera stays in the bag. When I choose quiet over adventure.
Travel has shaped everything about me for years. But it doesn’t feel like home in the same way anymore. I’m not sure if I’ve outgrown it—or if I’m finally ready to stop hiding behind it.
Who am I when I’m not chasing the next destination? Without the identity of travel stitched into everything I do?
It’s uncomfortable to question. Lonely, even.
But necessary.
Because I think I’m ready to shed this skin.
I just don’t know what’s underneath yet.
Who am I without travel?
And how do you let go of something that shaped you—something so many people dream of?
