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I missed my exit on the freeway the other day. I was deep in thought—thinking about the nights I can’t get back. Realising that life is moving way too fast. All these years have passed me by, and yet, in my mind, I’m still stuck in the past—dreaming about the would’ve beens and could’ve beens of my old self.

It’s funny. When I was young, I used to dream about growing older, becoming the true version of myself. And now that I’m older, I spend most of my days reminiscing about my youth. That’s the irony of life—we rarely live it in the moment, do we?

My mind is always digging, always searching for something I can’t even describe. It’s just this void that demands filling. I’m not a temperamental person; I take measured steps. I don’t usually look back wishing I’d done things differently. But there are moments—quiet, haunting moments—where I wish I could blame it all on trauma. On my inability to process loss, failure, rejection. On this relentless pursuit of excellence. On trying to find myself again in a foreign land that doesn’t speak my language. A place that hears but doesn’t listen. That sees but doesn’t understand.

I’ve cried out silently. Felt the pain of not belonging. Carried weight in my soul I didn’t know how to name. Fought battles every night with ghosts that never sleep. I’ve run into problems I created for myself. Left doors open that should’ve been closed. Kept bridges intact when I should’ve let them burn. And because I know much of it is my doing, I’ve kept it all to myself. I’ve tried to solve everything in my head—but in real life, I’ve failed miserably.

When I finally took the next exit, I realised I was still in the same neighbourhood—but nothing looked familiar. I didn’t recognise the street names, the corner shops, the skyline. Everything felt new, like I’d crossed into another world. That small fear of being completely lost snapped me back into focus. I swiped my car’s navigation screen and typed in my home address. I couldn’t believe I was just ten minutes away.

And in that moment, I realised—I’ve lived in this city for years, but I hardly know it.

So I kept driving. No rush. Just wanted to take it all in—see what I’d been missing. That simple detour opened me up to a world I never knew existed. Right at the edge of my doorstep was one of the most beautiful parks I’d ever seen. I’d driven down that road many times—but I’d looked without seeing. I hadn’t found anything because I hadn’t really been searching.

It opened my eyes. Maybe the problems in my head aren’t as big as they seem. Maybe they’re like mirages—fading when you stop chasing them. Or maybe they grow because I keep them locked inside.

Over the years, I’ve learnt a few things about myself. Travel, somehow, makes me feel whole. When I connect with new places, when I immerse myself in unfamiliar cultures, something in me begins to heal. The broken pieces start to mend. And yet, that healing has become both sanctuary and curse—because I can no longer settle.

I’m always yearning. Always wandering. Always searching for new street names, new corner stores. For a quiet park bench where I can sit and think. For strangers who’ll listen to my stories, laugh with me, share a moment of human connection. I keep chasing something—an emotion, a reason, a sense of belonging.

Yes, I’m surrounded by people who love me, who care deeply. But sometimes, I struggle to return that love—not because I don’t feel it, but because I’m not always okay. Not mentally. Not emotionally. Not socially.

And so, I keep moving. Keep searching. Country to country. City to city. Looking for healing. Looking for home.

But the truth is… I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.