[Click here to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7]

A plethora of American accents buzzed through my ears while I was still in the Barcelona airport. I guess that’s what happens when you fly on American Airlines.

I came back to the United States after being awake for nearly 24 hours.

I saw my mom for the first time in two years. I saw my brothers for the first time in five years. I met my nephews for the first time, one of which was my godson. I wondered what they’d thought of me—this aunt they had heard about and seen in photos, who didn’t live in America, was finally in front of them.

My brother’s wedding was beautiful. I saw people I hadn’t seen in much longer than five years, including a girl I used to babysit. She told me how much she’d looked up to me when she was younger. When her boyfriend met me, he told me how much he’d heard about me. I had no idea I’d made such an impact on her life.

For the rest of my time in Michigan, after my relatives left, I taught online and rested. Thanks to the time difference, I was usually finished teaching by noon.

I didn’t go out much. A few months before my trip, there was a shooting near my hometown. The likelihood of being in the wrong place at the wrong time was low, but I still felt afraid. I was angry that the supposed “Greatest Country in the World” had these problems. Meanwhile, in Spain, I’d walk through the city with earbuds in both of my ears.

Being back in Michigan felt like trying to put on clothes that no longer fit and were no longer in style.

My city looked the same in some ways, and different in others. I walked past the place I used to work. Had I stayed, I may have gotten that corporate job by now. I may be more financially well off by now.

But would I have been happier?

Absolutely not.

In fact, staying comfortable would have likely made myself miserable.

While I’ve struggled so much in Spain, I’m proud of my struggles because I made something beautiful for myself. I forged my way into a life in a foreign country during a pandemic. I expanded my teaching skills. I traveled—albeit, on a tight budget, but still—and I saw places I dreamed about visiting as a child.

And I can say that this life is mine, that I chose this life, and not many people can say that. And I fought for my life. No one has fought as hard as me in Spain.

This trip showed me that Michigan is where I’m from, and it may be my hometown, but it’s no longer my home. I’d changed too much. The girl I was 5 years ago was no longer the woman I am now.

The world is now my home.

I saw my two best friends from high school. We don’t talk much anymore. I still consider them my best friends. But the version we have of each other in our minds no longer exists. Our life paths could not be more different.

And while I will always feel like they are my best friends, I also felt myself mourn at the memories we have that no longer exist, and that may never happen again: talking about our love lives at the Sonic drive-through. Taking silly pictures with a digital camera at the bowling alley. Window shopping at the mall and laughing at our inside jokes that caused strangers to give us a side eye. Massive group photos of everyone on the couch at birthday parties. Listening to our friends sing Weird Al songs at the top of our lungs after a formal dance. Talking for hours on MSN. Drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade while playing Cards Against Humanity.

I don’t remember the last time I’ve laughed with friends like I did in these memories. And these memories can’t be replicated in 2025. We don’t have inside jokes anymore, MSN no longer exists, and weekend parties with bonfires and card games have been replaced by everyone’s own growing families, with husbands and wives and children, things I don’t have.

While I was happy to see my friends, and while I’m proud of the live I’ve built, I could now see what it cost me.

But staying in Michigan would have felt like trying to put on a pair of shoes on my hands and pass them off as gloves. The wanderlust was planted in my soul since I was a child. Michigan and I were never meant to be.

And so I left.

The night before my flight back to Spain, I stayed up all night, packing a carry-on suitcase (because I knew I didn’t want to over pack again). I did one last thing before I went to sleep (oh, who am I kidding? I wasn’t going to get any sleep on the international flight back to my adopted homeland).

I had a promise to make to my 14-year-old self. She’d asked me to come back for her. But I had a better idea.

“Hey,” I said quietly in the forbidden hours of the night. The hours in which I used to write love letters to clandestine boyfriends, guys a good Christian girl shouldn’t have spoken to. The hours I used to search for travel blogs like this one, documents, flights. Freedom.

She appeared, looking worse for the wear. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying herself to sleep night after night for months. She had hope. But she was getting tired of hoping.

“What are you doing?” she asked me.

“I’m not coming back for you,” I told her.

Her eyes started to fill with more tears. “Why not?” she asked. Her worst fear since childhood was abandonment. She braced herself for the final blow: the abandonment of self.

I looked at her tired blood moon red eyes. I took a deep breath, and then I said, “Because I’m taking you all with me.”

Five years ago, I left my past self in my room. I wanted nothing to do with it. Five years later, I was taking my past with me.

She watched me as I took out my journals, the ones I’d had for my whole life.

She watched me as I took out my thick white binder with every poem and song lyric I’ve kept.

And then I started taking pictures.

I took pictures of every song, every poem, every journal page.

As I took the pictures, I felt like I was telling my past that everything was going to be okay.

I took my 13-year-old self with me.

She was starting to deal with depression and social anxiety, and felt like it was her fault, like something was wrong with her. I assured her that there was nothing wrong with her, and that her empathy and sensitivity would be her strength.

I took my 16-year-old self with me.

She had fallen in love for the first time with a guy from Ecuador with a beautiful soul, but kept it a secret. She was starting to learn about Latin America as well. Spanish was her refuge in high school; she felt like an outcast everywhere else, and would spend all mornings pacing the halls so her classmates couldn’t tell she was alone and terribly afraid of talking to people. I told her to keep studying Spanish, because someday, she’d visit the countries she was curious about. She and the guy from Ecuador would meet ten years later, and she would find closure. And someday, she’d live in Spain and see incredible things.

I took my 18-year-old self with me.

She felt like her world was imploding. Nothing good can come from the mess that is my life, she thought, so why bother studying, why bother doing anything? I gave her a big hug, and told her that she would be like the fireworks and sculptures in Las Fallas, and that her life may have felt like a wreck, but someday, it would be a masterpiece to be reckoned with. She tilted her head to the side, scrunched her forehead, and said that she didn’t understand. I told her that someday, she would.

She looked at me, angry. “Why are you mocking me with all of these ideas?” she wailed. “Do you really think I can come with you? Can’t you see I’m stuck in this place?”

I looked at her with all the empathy in the world. I still had flashbacks. This girl never deserved anything she went through. But with hindsight, I now know it had a purpose.

I breathed deeply, and then, said, “Yes, you can. I’m proof that you won’t be stuck forever. I’m the one star shining in the night sky.”

Her eyes softened a bit. Her teardrops looked like crystals in the moonlight. She remembered. No matter how bad things had gotten, she still held onto that one shining star in the sky.

I reached out and said, “Take my hand. Tonight, we run.”

And we did.

I took my 23-year-old self with me.

She’d gotten a taste of travel after studying abroad in Argentina and backpacking around South America by herself for two months. She was just about finished with her university degree. But on this night, she was driving home crying. After presenting her paper at a student undergraduate conference, she went to a restaurant with the classmates she admired so much, the classmates she thought were so smart. She imagined they’d talk about literary theory and their favorite antebellum authors over mozzarella sticks and nachos. Instead, they gossiped about parties, their roommates, who was dating who, and she is really with him?! When they paid the bill, they all agreed to buy a bottle of vodka and continue the party at someone’s house. Except they didn’t invite her; they didn’t even say goodbye to her as they left the restaurant. And even though she didn’t want to go, an invitation, or at least acknowledgment of her presence, would have been nice. She drove home in silent tears, wondering what was wrong with her, and wondering when she’d find her people again. I told her that she only needed to wait a little over a year before heading to Colombia, and in that country, she would never feel alone, and would always feel welcome.

I took my 25-year-old self with me.

She’d just gotten offered a job in Colombia after teaching for a year. She was doing great professionally, but her anxiety was through the roof. I told her that she was learning a lot that would be useful when she moved to Spain to teach business English. She tells me that she’s not sure if she wants to teach anymore, that it’s more stressful than she ever thought it would be, that she’s dropped so much weight because she’s too anxious to eat. I tell her that she just hasn’t found the type of teaching environment that will work best for her, and that when she goes to Spain, she’ll finally feel at ease and enjoy teaching again.

And finally, I take my 29-year-old self.

She claimed she was comfortable, but she was conflicted. She insisted that she was okay dating a guy who wanted everything from her except a relationship, but she was restless. She wondered if she would ever go abroad again. I told her she would. And I told her to keep riding her bike every day to work, because it’s putting her in the best shape of her life.

When I was done taking pictures of my past selves, I put my journals back. I looked at my American Girl dolls that I loved playing with, my books, my scrapbooks from high school and university, the photos of my cousin and me when I visited her in Hawaii. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in years. I missed how close we were. We once promised each other that we would be each other’s maid of honor. Now, I don’t know who I’d ask to be my maid of honor.

My childhood room felt like a museum. I slept in my bed that night, not knowing when I’d go back. Not knowing when I’d see my parents or my brothers or nephews or dog again. And feeling like, while this will always be my childhood room, I’m now a visitor here.

The next day, I got on a plane that took me to Chicago, and then to Barcelona. When I got back to Spain, I felt like I’d come home. My hot, touristic, busy, beautiful home that had transformed me far more than I’d imagined when I first set foot on Spanish soil.