One Year Later: Africa, Simplicity, and the Self I Still Long For

It’s been a year since I stepped off the plane, sunkissed, dusty and tired, back from a continent that stirred something deep within me. Africa was never just a trip. It was a remembering—a homecoming to parts of myself I hadn’t known I’d misplaced.

Now, one year later, I find myself longing for what I felt there. Not in the postcard-perfect sense of wanting to revisit a destination, but in the soul-deep way that calls for reconnection. I miss the version of myself I was in Africa. I miss the rhythms of life that asked more of my spirit and less of my schedule. I miss the way the days unfolded with a kind of spaciousness that felt rare and sacred.

Africa was both complex and beautifully simple.

The Complexity That Humbled Me

There was no romanticizing the realities of life for the people I met. Their struggles were visible—raw and real. I saw what it meant to work hard not just to live, but to survive. I listened to stories filled with both hardship and remarkable joy. That paradox marked me. It reminded me that resilience is not about being untouched by life, but about how we keep choosing to show up, even when it’s hard.

There’s a kind of honesty in that life that felt like a mirror—one that made me question the pace, the priorities, and the polish of my own world. It asked me to look at what I truly need, and what I’ve been conditioned to think I need. That reflection wasn’t always comfortable, but it was freeing. It unhooked me from my attachment to perfection and performance.... and "things", the stuff that used to make me feel safe.

The Simplicity That Set Me Free

In Africa, the external didn’t matter so much. My hair was always a mess yet I learned that I have natural curls in my hair and when it air dries, I looked like I had that I had paid a lot of money to achieve a "beach babe" vibe. I had a limited wardrobe and my clothes were plain, comfortable and often dusty. And I didn’t care. I wasn’t dressing for anyone. There was freedom in that—a kind of quiet rebellion against the invisible pressure to present a curated version of myself.

Each day was different. Not because I had planned it that way, but because the days themselves held adventure and uncertainty. There was no itinerary dictating who I should be. Every morning, I woke up with the unspoken invitation to simply show up—to meet the day as it came. I have a tattoo that reads, “Every day is a new beginning.” I got it long before this trip, but I felt it come to life in Africa. I lived it.

The Unexpected Friendships That Changed Everything

One of the most unexpected gifts of that month was the people I shared it with. We began as strangers—travel companions pulled together from a variety of backgrounds. Something magical happens when you’re living side by side, outside your comfort zone, navigating new places and new cultures with people who don't know your history.

There’s a kind of intimacy that forms when you're not performing who you've been, but discovering who you are—together. Within weeks, they felt like family. We laughed, we cried, we stumbled through awkward cultural faux pas and late-night reflections under starlit skies. Those people held space for me in ways I didn’t know I needed. And when I came home, I missed them deeply. It was a kind of homesickness not for a place, but for them, and for who I was with them.

We still have a group chat. And just this past week, a flurry of messages reminded me of what we shared. Photos. Memories. Heartfelt “Remember this?” messages that transported me back in an instant. The closeness hasn’t faded, not really. But I feel the ache of it—of missing something that felt like belonging.

So Where Do I Go From Here?

The question that lingers for me now is this: How do I keep those memories close—not just the events, but the feeling of them? How do I integrate that version of myself—the one who lived in the present, let go of control, embraced imperfection, and connected so openly—into a life that is different from the one I live while traveling?

I don’t want that version of me to only exist on planes and passports. I want her here, in the ordinary. I want the woman who woke each day with wonder and intention to show up in every aspect of my everyday life.

Maybe it starts with simplicity. Maybe it starts with letting go of the illusion that life needs to be orchestrated and perfect. Maybe it’s about creating space—to breathe, to pause, to remember. Maybe it’s about reaching out to people who remind me who I am underneath it all. Maybe it’s about setting down the weight of who I think I should be and choosing, instead, to live each day like it’s new.  

I thought I had already done a lot of that work—I thought I had let go of much of the sense of living for others. But the truth is, I’m still unraveling it. I still find myself trying to fit into invisible molds, choosing “shoulds” over soul. I think often of that line from Bronnie Ware’s The Top Five Regrets of the Dying—the one that says the most common regret people have is “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.” That one hits home. Because even now, I sometimes wonder—whose life am I living? And what parts of me are still waiting for permission to come forward?

Because it is.

Africa taught me that. She reminded me that my aliveness isn’t conditional. It doesn’t only live in foreign landscapes or freedom from obligation. It lives inside the choice to be present. To connect. To stay open.

So today, one year later, I’m lighting a candle, pouring a cup of tea, and scrolling through those pictures again.  I still haven’t made the picture book I promised myself I’d create—but the memories live vividly in my mind. I’m remembering the laughter, the dust, the quiet moments, the wild ones and I’m letting it all remind me that I am still in there—that version of myself hasn’t gone anywhere. She just needs a little room to breathe.

Here’s to making space.

What About You?

As you read this, maybe something stirs in you too. Maybe you’re remembering a time, a place, or even just a moment when you felt most like yourself—unfiltered, free, fully alive.

Where were you? Who were you with? What were you doing—or not doing—that allowed your truest self to show up?

I invite you to pause, even for a minute today, and ask yourself:

What parts of me only come alive when I’m away from the routines and roles of my everyday life? And how can I bring those parts home?

You don’t need a plane ticket to return to that version of yourself. Sometimes all it takes is space. Stillness. A photo. A memory. A breath.

If you feel called, I’d love to hear your reflection—leave a comment or send me a message. Let’s remember who we are, together.