I left Wellington not knowing what the future had in store for me. Not knowing whether I would be miserable throughout my three months away or whether I’d find peace.

I’m glad it was the latter.

The first week was easy enough, I was with my brother without having any actual responsibilities. It got harder when I got to Ireland. I found myself in a constant state of nervousness, navigating a new city and culture on my own. I was afraid but also so excited, so in love with opening this new chapter of my life that it manifested in dread.

I spent most of my time in Dublin aimlessly walking around the city centre. Each day purposefully getting lost deeper and deeper into the city. I observed people going about their day, catching the buses and the LUAS.

I enjoyed those walks alone, I found comfort in my loneliness and thrived in it during the day, although the nights were what I found most difficult. I spent each night sipping on a pint at JT Pim’s, and on occasion a terrible L&M cigarette sitting between my fingers.

I could feel myself falling deeper and deeper into this state of ‘dread’ and anxiety. I considered going back home, abandoning my trip and leaving this new life behind.

Begrudgingly, I forced myself out of my shell. Striking up conversation with an Australian girl in my dorm. She convinced me to go out with her and a few others. That night I promised myself that I would not shy away from human connection. That it is not something one can just live without

My feelings began to feel lighter, I could feel a new life begin. Although my week alone in Dublin was not perfect, it had already taught me something new. We need others.

My second night in Paris was spent with one of my best friends, Kinan and friends he met at his course. Already, I could find myself feeling more and more confident in social situations, I didn’t shy away from sharing my opinion, of laughing or enjoying the people I was around.

Kinan and I spent each night walking through the city, talking about our lives since we had last seen one another. I understood quickly that this was not the boy I had left in Geneva. It is the man that is starting a new life in Canada. A part of me felt sad, as if something familiar had slipped away. But mostly, I felt grateful. How lucky I was to grow up alongside a friend I could now witness growing into himself.

The connection between Kinan and I grew stronger each day I spent in Paris with him. While both experiencing Geneva differently, both ended up going through similar things. It was as if our separate paths had curved back toward one another, allowing us to understand each other in ways no one else could.

We talked about the expectations we got from others and from ourselves. The things we struggled with, our quiet displaced anger. When I think about Paris, I think less about the city, and more about the person I spent it with. The person that comforted me when I missed my family, that made it so difficult to say goodbye to. It made me realise that friendships do not have to wither because of distance or time. Sometimes you do not outgrow people from your past.

Leaving Paris felt like stepping away from something safe, something familiar. Kinan had been my anchor, reminding me of the power of connection. But Italy was different.

My friend, Holly, took me to meet her Italian friends. They stood at the pier having conversations I could not quite enter. I tried desperately to grasp at the few words I could understand but they washed over me like music. I smiled, nodded, and pieced together fragments, but I couldn’t be truly there in the way I longed to be.

It was humbling. In Dublin, my isolation had come from fear; in Paris, I’d found comfort in friendship. But in Italy, my solitude was sharpened by language by the limits of what I could say. I realised how much of myself I take for granted when I can speak freely. Stripped of that, I felt quieter, smaller, like a guest in someone else’s life.

Nonetheless, I pushed aside my self pity and paid attention. The way hands moved as people spoke, to the bursts of laughter, to the warmth of being included even when I couldn’t follow every word. I learned to accept the generosity of being welcomed without needing to prove myself through conversation. I noticed the quick glances, the unspoken rivalries and the subtle gestures that gave them away.

Italy reminded me that connection takes many forms. Sometimes it’s laughter over shared language, sometimes it’s a walk through Paris at night. And sometimes it’s simply being allowed to sit at the pier, unseen but not unwelcome. I started to understand that connection isn’t always about speaking; sometimes it’s about noticing, about seeing people as they are, even when they think no one does.

When I left Italy and arrived in Greece, I found myself slipping into a version of myself that had been dormant for years. Suddenly, the hesitations that had followed me through Ireland, Paris, and Italy seemed to fall away. Here, I could speak freely. Here, I knew the rhythm of the streets, the cadence of conversations, the quiet codes of a culture that had always lived within me.

It was more than just understanding the language. It was recognising myself in the faces around me, in the food placed on the table, in the way the women and men spoke to one another, the road up to Pano Hora, the walk down to Livadi. With family close by, I felt a grounding I hadn’t realised I was craving. In other places, I had been a traveller, a guest, a quiet observer. In Greece, I was simply part of the fabric, a thread woven back into its place. I remember arriving in Korydallos, the apartment building casting its shadow down at me, tears sprang from my eyes. Realising that finally, I was home. I could feel the connection to my ancestors repair itself within me.

This version of me, confident, rooted, unafraid of belonging, had been waiting beneath the surface all along. And Greece drew it out with ease, reminding me that “home” isn’t always one fixed place. Sometimes it’s the language that feels natural on your tongue, or the people who know your history without explanation. Sometimes it’s a country that welcomes you not as a visitor, but as someone who already belongs. I thrived in Greece, speaking to each person I passed by. My late night conversations with the bartenders, my silent walks down to the beach each morning.

When I left to go back to New Zealand I made myself one promise, to bring back every lesson I learnt and to apply it to my life there. To speak to others, to branch out but to also find the comfort in myself, when no one else was there.

Travel did not erase my anxieties or make me invincible. But it showed me that I can, and will survive them. Dublin taught me that connection cannot be avoided. Paris reminded me that friendships can grow even as we change. Italy showed me the value of observing closely, of seeing what isn’t said. And Greece reminded me of who I already was and the version of myself I want to keep alive.

Now, back in Wellington, the future still feels uncertain. But I no longer meet that uncertainty with dread. Instead, I carry with me the knowledge that wherever I go, I can find my place. Through others, through culture, through friendship, and, most of all, through myself.

I will leave it here with one of my favourite scenes.