I can’t sleep.

When I was younger, my mind frequently prevented me from sleep with hours of racing, similar in quality to this very moment. Sometimes I’d exhaust myself so throughly that sleep came, other times I’d wander into my parents bedroom, defeated. I’d gently try to wake my dad and without fail he would startle awake. I would stifle a giggle and immediately feel less alone because of the simple, tangible, reassurance that I wasn’t the only person on earth who was awake, anymore. I’d tell my dad what he already knew; I couldn’t sleep. He would then follow me into my bedroom and rub my back as I verbalized everything my mind hadn’t been able to independently let go of. The next thing I knew, I woke up hours later. It was magic, I think.

Right now, my dad is 5.7 miles away. I could drive there in ten minutes, or walk there in less than two hours, but as of this past Monday I’m twenty-six and that’s probably slightly too old to make such a trek, regardless of the transportation means. So instead, I’m writing again.

The hardest thing about being home has been gathering my thoughts, experiences and emotions and articulating them. One friend asked me how my trip was and I simply responded with the word “necessary.” I sat down with another and started crying before any sound came out of my mouth. And then there was the co-worker who asked me about my experience and patiently sat and listened as I talked about what I ate for breakfast, the personalities of everyone I met and each of my toes in detail.

What you get really depends on the moment and the piece of the experience I’m processing through. “I do much better if you ask me specific questions,” I’ve learned to tell people.

If you asked me about my trip at this very moment, I’d tell you that April feels a lot like one of those games you play on a children’s menu – the one where you trace multiple lines from start to finish in an attempt to figure out which one is which.

Spain was thinking about every relevant life event from all possible angles and talking to people that had fresh perspectives and no biases. It was making sense of how seemingly unrelated pieces of my life were attached to others. It was appreciating that all of those pieces make up some sort of odd unique masterpiece in progress thing. It was learning that the point all along was never to untangle the knot, because all of the strings are intimately woven together and each holds importance in the overall structure. The point, I think, is loosening the knot enough to understand what is what and why it’s that way. It’s learning the strings not to tug on because all that does is hurt and undo progress by tightening things again. But it’s also learning to give yourself grace, because you’re still learning. You’re always still learning.

In the past <2 weeks, I’ve initiated and gone on three hikes, while simultaneously worrying about a stress fracture in my right foot (don’t lecture me or ask me why, I know. And I have no answer aside from maybe an addiction to movement. And maybe because walking with people feels like the most practical way to explain everything). I’ve made a playlist on my phone of the most meaningful songs from my trip, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to listen to it. I’ve splurged in all supplies (and more) needed for a successful water coloring hobby. I’ve turned twenty-six. I’ve returned to a job I love. I’ve eaten the foods I missed as I fumble through the aforementioned (trying to) tell people about my trip conversations.

And today I put up trip photos in my bedroom. “I needed proof it wasn’t a dream,” I told my counselor as I looked through the stack of photos with her earlier this afternoon.

Hike I:

Hike II:

Hike III: