On November 2nd, 2021 I boarded a flight bound for Brazil. I made the seemingly crazy decision to disrupt a tranquil, stable life and take a mid-pandemic dive into the unknown world of Rio de Janeiro. I constantly doubted my decision. I left behind friends, family, a monthly paycheck, and a job in the surf industry. All for what? The promise that the grass would be greener on the other side of the world? I was chasing new adventures, new cultures, and new languages — putting a pause on monotony and stepping out of my comfort zone. At least that’s what I would tell myself when I needed reassurance. However, I knew that none of that was guaranteed. I was still wondering what the hell I was doing as the airplane door shut. By then I knew it was too late to go back.

Now it’s September 2023. 22 months have elapsed. 674 days. I am sitting in a cafe in Beirut, reflecting on my travels and treating myself to an oversized piece of carrot cake. I feel like I deserve it. It’s a symbolic pat on the back because I am turning a page to the next chapter. The journey is over. I’m headed home.

That one-way flight to Brazil blossomed into a lot more than I would have imagined in my wildest dreams. I’ve been to twelve countries since that leap of faith. I’ve met countless people that I call friends and admire. I’ve been to the top of the Himalayas. I climbed volcanos. I surfed the best waves of my life. I swam with sea turtles. I’m in as good physical shape as I’ve ever been. I learned a lot about myself. And when I look in the mirror, I can’t help but notice that I’ve aged. Countless hours in the sun instead of indoor office work have certainly taken their toll.

It’s overwhelming to try to even sift through the memory vault as I write this. It’s a whirlwind of emotions — excitement to reconnect with everything that is connected to my home, nostalgia for moments that I lived and people I met that likely will never repeat, the accomplishment of having set a goal that was achieved, and the uncertainty of what the future holds. I wonder if going back to the life I knew will feel dull compared to what I’ve experienced abroad. If you follow my blog, I may sound like a broken record, but damn, it’s genuinely hard for me to begin to comprehend what life became these last two years.

Throughout this journey, I’ve developed an internal clock of sorts. I don’t know if it was inside me all along or not, but it has been guiding me as far as when it was time to keep my journey moving along. It’s just a feeling I get when I perceive that I’ve had enough or milked a country/city for what it’s worth. It’s the clock that told me Brazil was not the end, but the beginning. It told me to buy a flight to Mumbai. It told me I should learn French in the middle of the Indian Ocean. And this time, after arriving in Lebanon and gorging myself on what very well may be the best cuisine in the world, that clock, or instinct, is telling me it’s time to go back to where it all began: home. I have no desire to stop in another country. This time I am ready for the slow life of a small town in California — riding my bike, taking the dog to the park, riding the same waves where I learned to surf, frequenting the taquerias that I’ve known for 30 years, reconnecting and sharing laughs with my lifelong friends.

The future is still as blank of a page as it’s ever been in my life. I think stepping out of the trip and back into the “known” will give me a break to reflect on what I’ve experienced. It will give me more perspective and perhaps help me better understand what it all truly meant. And speaking of the future, I don’t know what comes next. Will I recreate some semblance of a life and routine in California, or will I embark on another two-year voyage to lands unknown? I really have no idea. And that really doesn’t bother me. One step at a time.