Sorry about the silence.

I had every intention of sharing a story about one of my recent nights here in Thailand (and I still will), along with updates on how this journey of travel and growth has been going. But life, as it often does, got in the way.

I’d be lying if I said there were no downsides to living abroad. In fact, there are many. One of the hardest is what it does to your relationships — missing the moments that aren’t just irreplaceable, but final. The kind of moments you never get another chance at. The last chance to connect. The last chance to say goodbye.

I recently lost someone.

Someone deeply special to me.

I won’t name them — not because they were private, but because my love for them is so vast and tender that speaking of them feels like breaking glass inside my chest. I’m choosing to hold their identity close, sharing it only with those who knew and loved them just as deeply. Their memory has become a treasure. A sacred one.

This isn’t the first person I’ve lost while being away.

Those calls — they never get easier.

Someone 5,000+ miles away, sobbing on the phone, telling you something you’re not ready to hear. And you? Alone. Far from family. No arms to hold you. No one to pass the tissue box back and forth. Just you. Sitting in the silence, stunned.

Each call stays with me. But this one? This one echoes loudest.

Like a broken radio on repeat.

When I got the call… that they had died… a part of me went with them.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever get that part back.

When you’re abroad and you get that call, the first thing you think of is the last time you saw them.

Sometimes, you’re lucky. Sometimes, it was recent.

Sometimes, you said goodbye.

But this wasn’t one of those times.

With them, it was always: “I’ll see you soon.”

I was planning our reunion. I was actively making moves to be close again.

Then came the 4 a.m. call that shattered every plan.

No more reunions. Just a forever kind of longing that lives in my bones now.

Grief is strange. So is life.

My body aches as much as my heart. My soul mourns in silence.

This is a pain I didn’t know existed — and I know pain.

In these moments, people often ask:

“Is traveling really worth it?”

Worth missing the final goodbye?

Worth grieving without community — alone, oceans away?

Travel is a gift. But even gifts come with cost.

Yes, you gain new friendships and chosen family around the world.

But no one can truly understand what you’ve lost if they never knew who you lost.

They weren’t here for that chapter of your life.

They didn’t witness the light in your eyes that came from this person.

And that’s the thing about sharing grief:

When you tell stories to those who knew them, your loved one comes alive again — even if just for a moment.

But when you tell those stories to people who didn’t…

They don’t see the life.

They see the loss.

They feel the absence.

And that energy — it’s just not the same.
Still, my loved one will always be remembered.

They live on through me, through others who loved them, and through the memories we protect.

But this grief is different.

This one… I can’t just cry through and move on.

This grief shifted me.

Dimmed something inside me.

Left me shattered.

Now I’m learning to live in a world where the last time I saw them will always be the last time I saw them.

Is traveling worth the cost?

I can’t answer that for you.

But here’s what I do know:

The ones I’ve lost — whether I got to say goodbye or not — would still want me living.

Fully. Boldly. Unapologetically.

They’d want me to chase the life I’ve worked so hard for, even if the price was missing those final moments.

Every person I’ve lost supported this journey.

They were proud of me.

They were happy for me.

And while their absence aches, their joy for my growth still warms me.

I miss them deeply.

And truthfully… I don’t know how to live without them yet.

But I do know this: they wouldn’t want me to stay stuck in the past.

They wouldn’t want me to give up everything I’ve worked for just because the grief feels unbearable.

So instead, I place them gently on the shelf of my heart.

I carry them forward.

And in moments when they can come alive again — through shared memories, through love, through laughter — I will welcome them with open arms.

Grief is a teacher.

And I’m still learning.

So with that said — let’s get back to life.