And so, you’ve been asking me how it feels to be home as though there’s one standard emotion set to those that have just gone distances one had been dreaming of for years. I’ll begin with my apology for being vain, utterly repulsive and needlessly dramatic but parts of me have died on this trip and parts of me have come alive and to find the words to express such a wide variety of emotion can’t be done but I will tell you this: this world has done it again. I’ve arrived early to walk towards the morning light and I’ve been recklessly dropped, shattered and gutted to pieces. My hands shook anxiously for the chance to study meaning, to experience it, to find truth and trust in pain, to see clearly without flinching, to find patience in all that is unsolved, to feel alive again and be consciously, serenely aware of it. I began craving the courage to show up in a world that hands out a silver-tongued list of all things filled with danger and hatred, and then create a list of what it means to see it all and still feel love.

In the dreams of a young girl I heard, “You must go. Let the flowers show you how to open up, the avalanches teach you to let go, the eagles show you how to fly, the wind teach you how to breathe, the sun to show you trust, let the earth feed your soul. It’s time, again.” And on a summer Monday morning, growing angry of hearing the clanking dishes, the complaints of a tough steak, and the footsteps of a busy Saturday night in an old creaking restaurant, I decided to stop dreaming about the world and decided to be a part of it – beginning in Kenya. A ticket that got me questioning if I just purchased a one-way ticket to my own grave or quite possibly the beginning of the rest of my life.

I found myself thinking more about my own mortality than your average 22-year-old after listening to the news alerts and strangers telling me how dangerous the world is, especially parts of the world where poverty, disease, and violence are so raw and prevalent. When I really sat down and contemplated my own death, I realized how necessary it was to go on, how contemplation and acceptance is the greatest fuel for creating a fulfilling life. And with becoming so acutely addicted to living, one’s death cannot deem a tragedy. To fall in love with a part of the world that so many people hold clenched fists over became a task so necessary for me to receive a balance in my own existence. And whatever happens, as a result, is better than the nothingness that is inevitable with never leaving.

I read somewhere that going to Africa was going home – that genetic memory was the only explanation for the familiar sense one receives after arriving in Africa having never actually been. It doesn’t matter where you live or where you’ve been, Africa makes you feel something that you can’t feel anywhere else.

With calming my nerves of arrival, I studied the chameleons and chased the monkey’s gliding through the trees. I watched the monsoonal rains pass by, and one by one, I met the souls who were as curious as mine of a land that we’ve never been to but once knew. These people became my family and together we were challenged with the task of growing comfortable transitioning to a home we had to build each night consisting of a few metal poles and a zippered front door. We befriended the grassy, sandy and dirty mattresses and welcomed the critters that lived beneath us for the next three months. We found ourselves driving over weather-beaten dirt roads in a plastic-windowed yellow truck that constantly dodged goats and chickens and we’d cook fresh food over a campfire that stained my clothes a smoky stench strong enough to cover up the fact that I hadn’t washed my shirt outside a river or bucket in a while. A blessing, I’d call it, to have the opportunity of living so simply, often without the guarantee of showers, mirrors, or internet access. Giving up a closet full of your own clothes, a kitchen full of food picked out yourself, a house full of your own stuff, being forced out of the comfort of everything you’ve always known is the rawest form of growth as it exposes one’s greatest state of vulnerability. But by being uncomfortable, one is forced to change or to adapt quickly. And through this change of letting go of everything I’ve known, I grew a sense of lightness and freedom. And that was just the beginning.

The megafauna and grasslands all together made me feel young. The rhinos made me cry, the elephants inspired me, the hippos made me feel brave, the leopards made me feel lucky, the lions were encouraging, the gorillas made me feel wild, the bird’s song were calming. And with my two bare feet on the ground, staring at the setting bright red African sun, I felt happy, for the lack of a better word, to witness an act that occurs in each of our days, and be moved to tears. I want to remember this moment forever. I like to believe that each joyous tear from the human eye is a chance to be saved. And while I don’t believe that traveling can fully save anyone, I believe it can bring awareness to one needing to be saved. And that moments precious enough to turn to memories are a part of that process of being saved, of feeling happy to be alive.

Like the moment I looked up to the Serengeti stars and gasped at how bright the milky way was. Or that day in the mountains of Uganda, we trekked for hours following a man carrying a machete to create a trail while armed rangers took our sides all to get a glimpse of the endangered mountain gorillas. I never want to forget boarding a small plane to fly over the Okavango Delta or the colors of the rainbows as we flew over Victoria Falls. Or that night the lions roamed our campground circling tents, rustling with rain covers and dragging shoes left outside into the grass. The red sand dunes in Namibia appeared different shades throughout the day. One at sunrise and a different during the afternoon spent sand boarding and a faded blood-orange color appeared as I went skydiving over them before the sun went down. The class 5 rapids of the Nile river that I kayaked down is definitely something I’ll never forget and most likely something I’ll never do again. A large inflatable raft as we braved the grade 5 rapids of the Zambezi was a much better option for me. And the first elephant I saw, moved me to a moment of stillness. I didn’t get to take a picture. And my days in Zanzibar were filled with snorkeling around the sweeping coral reefs and the nights were spent drinking too many beers on the beaches and dancing along to music in a different language. I’ll always remember spending hours hiking through the rain in the lush tropical forests of Kalinzu chasing chimpanzees that didn’t want to be seen. Renting a houseboat on Lake Kariba in Zambia was a wild trip in itself. And when it all comes down to it, the greatest memories consist solely of feelings and so when I’d jump in the jeep for a game drive, I would often stand and close my eyes to block out any visual dominance and focus on the direct human contact with nature. I’d feel the goosebumps rise as the cold winter wind brushed across my face and I fought each bump in the road that rocked my feet as I stood on the seat. I’d listen to the songs of the birds racing our car and try to imagine which bright color that one is. Each time someone would spot an animal, I’d listen to the screams of excitement, see if I can hear the footsteps, grunts or chewing coming from afar to guess what it is. And I found myself doing this on each game drive through the Maasai Mara, Lake Naivasha, Ngorongoro Crater, Matobo National Park, Queen Elizabeth National Park, the Serengeti, Etosha National Park and more.

And when I want to go back, I close my eyes and I can feel the swaying savanna around me, I can hear the crackling of a warm fire and a lion’s roar in the distance and I can imagine the silhouette of an elephant standing before a bright orange setting sun and I can breathe again. And I wonder how the seemingly impossible process of transitioning a dangerously empty life to an extraordinary one can be as simple as buying a plane ticket to Africa.