People often ask me how I travel so much and alone.
For me, it’s always felt natural.
I’ve always been a traveller at heart,
someone who belongs on the road.
But today, as I pack up and leave home again,
I realise how much of my journey isn’t really mine alone.
It’s stitched together with love from the people who make it possible.
My father who makes sure that I have all the snacks, medicines,
and the right routes marked out.
My mother who worries endlessly every time I leave,
but I know it’s her prayers that keep this clumsy and stupid girl safe out there.
My siblings, each in their own way, reminding me to take care,
helping me prepare, and whose quiet care is something I can always count on.
And then, there’s my chosen family, my friends
who nag about the late-night buses and safety tips,
who love me enough to care from afar.
Even the strangers I meet along the way,
sometimes surprised to see me travelling solo,
somehow become part of my story, always kind, always encouraging
So maybe, even when I travel alone,
I never really am.
I carry a little piece of everyone with me
They’re the quiet reason behind every adventure,
the home behind all my roads.
Leave a Reply