Getting off the train, passengers spill out the doors and onto the platform. They merge from every direction, moving toward the first set of escalators. It’s a well-choreographed dance, left, center, center, right. Climb or stand in place. I slow as someone steps in front of me. A bag lightly grazes my arm.

At the top, the crowd forms quickly at the turnstiles. The line moves quickly. The tap pad flashes green. Thunk—a passenger’s oversized purse and lunch box hit its arm. Cleared. I glance at my watch. 9:13. Plenty of time.

Through the turnstile, I lengthen my stride and hurry towards the second set of escalators. I start to round the corner. The escalator dance has stopped. I stretch my body, my brows furrowed. My phone chirps at me, 9:15 am, the meeting reminder.

On the escalator, I go right. A passenger looks over his shoulder before stepping to his left. He begins climbing the stairs but stops. He shifts his bag to his other hand, grabbing the railing. His fingernails tapping time. Another passenger walks up behind him, stops, and leans over the railing. Soon there is a line of passengers standing on both sides of the escalator. The escalator continues its slow crawl.

Arriving near the top, I notice a woman pushing a large baby stroller off the escalator. She pushes down on the stroller handle to lift the front wheels over the stair lip. But the basket on the bottom hangs low, filled with blankets and bags. It’s stuck. She lifts the stroller. She has to move fast; the escalator stairs don’t stop for anyone.

As she pushes the stroller off the escalator, she glances behind her at the left side moving again.

I step off and see a second woman with a stroller. She waves and calls out her friend’s name. Her smile is contagious as the woman exiting the escalator bends down, rearranges the bags below, and smiles back. She laughs. As she reaches her friend, they exchange a few words before going right, walking side by side.

The pedestrian signal flashes green and begins counting down. They nonchalantly push the strollers through the busy crosswalk. The crowd converges around them.

I need to get to my meeting. I turn left. It’s 9:20 am.

Four hours later, I am still thinking about them, wondering if, alone, I would have taken the elevator.

Rob and I, June 22, 2019, my mom’s 70th birthday — the first time I saw him in ten years.

I kept looking for evidence that my life had changed with his passing. I thought that maybe my phone would blow up with family group messages or we would rush to be with each other. I thought we would all be on the next flight out. But none of that happened. Instead, I still answered emails and took meetings. I prepared for a long trip out of the country. I read and I slept. My life went on and I couldn’t understand why.

I had always measured the strength of relationships on a spectrum of emotional intensity—hatred to love. But if the emotional intensity isn’t there, how would I know that I loved someone?

With every relationship I’ve been in, I started with hope. I felt hope that it would feel different than the one before it and the one before that. Hope that this one would hurt if I lost them. And each time, I looked inward for something that told me I had changed—that I was willing to give up something important for my partner. A trip, being right in an argument, saying yes when I really meant no. And each time when I realized that the relationship wasn’t any different than the one that came before it, I didn’t just feel empty. I felt like I was pretending.

After my brother’s passing, I was expecting to feel the type of loss that people would notice when they were around me. The one that has me breaking down in the airport, unable to control my sobs as I begged the desk agent to get me a seat on the next flight. The kind I expected to feel when my relationships ended. Walking around with red, swollen eyes or withdrawing from activities I once enjoyed. The kind of loss that is on display which allows observers to understand what they are seeing. They know how to support us—calling and texting, reminiscing and sharing stories and memories. But none of that came. Not after the relationships ended. Not after my brother’s passing.

What happens when loss doesn’t show itself? Our daily routines continue without interruption as if nothing happened. The intense emotions we expect to feel and that others expect to see are instead flat. We mischaracterize that flatness as not loving. In that flatness, time passes and loss is forgotten.

When I returned from my trip the month after my brother passed, I picked up right where I left off. At the office, nobody asked me how I was doing. I went back to answering emails and attending meetings. Too much time had passed since my boss first heard the news that nobody sent flowers. At home, the kids and I planned for the upcoming holiday. The dog went to the vet. I continued to prepare for the launch of my book. The family thread dwindled from eight to four people. And I slept fine.

After my brother died and I still hadn’t cried, the question of how I knew that I loved someone surfaced for me again. And now, with Valentine’s Day on the horizon, I sit here wondering if I have ever loved, and if I haven’t, have I ever felt loss?

The question doesn’t stay internal long. People are taught to look for visual cues after loss. When there are no cues, the loss is shouldered quietly. There are no invitations to talk. Doors are closed but no one asks why. Other times life goes on after the loss, as if it never happened. At work, meetings persist and time off doesn’t get scheduled. Over time, the friendly hellos end because they are met with silence. When people eventually find out, they’ll tell me how strong I was.

With Valentine’s Day quickly approaching, it is easy to see love. The chocolates and stuffed animals grace the aisles at every store we walk into. Kids pass out candy hearts and little cards at school. On a day like Valentine’s Day, the grief of those that have loved and lost someone is visible. And we support them in all the ways we’ve been taught to support those that we love.

But what happens if you’ve lost someone that you’re not sure that you love? Like with my brother. The check-ins at work stopped a long time ago. My family group thread sits idle. Instead, one off messages in support of our favorite football team ping. Yet the loss was never reconciled. It sits deeply inside me waiting for the day when I will let it rise to the surface and feel it.

There are still no tears. There is just emptiness.

I lay awake in bed most nights, replaying and rehearsing hard and unpleasant conversations in my head, cataloguing my points and chastising myself when I forget them. I wonder, Did the person I argued with understand why I was upset? Could I convince them that I was right? The late-night conversations progress much like the writing of this essay–me talking to the blank apartment walls, choosing and changing words faster than they could be absorbed into my brain and converted into words on paper, constructing the responses that I wanted to hear, and not the ones that I heard. Some nights I could forestall the one-sided conversations by making decisions, quickly—book a flight, schedule a tour, buy something—done.

Quick decision-making is movement. The decisions fill the space where the internal dialogue lives. Book a trip instead of sitting with the email that carries bad news. The confirmation appears on the screen. The email goes quiet.

So that’s how I came to be riding a motorbike across West Africa—through a random Facebook post and a late-night search for a flight. The trip details: eight days and three countries with more potholes than a highway after winter. And even though I had never driven a motorbike before, I mentally ticked off the reasons it was okay: I could ride a bike and I had taught my kids how to drive.

The first morning on the motorbike, I struggled with the mechanics of riding. The engine revved, the bike jerked but I puttered along building confidence as the miles of grassland passed us by. Later that morning, our group of ten came upon a small village, the road filled with people, carts, and animals. Riding at the back of the group, I mimicked the riders in front of me, noticing as they dropped their foot to the ground as they turned right. But my bike didn’t slow down like theirs had, and soon I found myself on the heels of the rider in front of me. I furiously started stomping the back brake, but the bike started sliding in the opposite direction that I wanted to go. The next thing I knew, as I missed the turn, I was looking right into the eyes of an old man pushing a cart full of produce.

After getting back on the road, I caught up to the group and began pushing the bike to 40 miles per hour. I allowed my mind to wander as the warm breeze cooled my sunburned arms. I stole glances at the passing countryside, taking in the women carrying children on their backs and baskets on their heads.

The riding was going well, that is until we came to a left-hand turn. What happened next unfolded slowly in front of my eyes, even as the bike continued to speed towards the next intersection. Realizing I wasn’t slowing down quickly enough, I looked to my right to see if I could safely make the turn. That’s when I saw it. A white van coming straight at me. I quickly looked to my left, and seeing an empty lane, I pulled the handlebars left. In my mind, I was jerking the bike all over the road, and panic started to settle in. As I moved back into the right lane, my hands turned up the accelerator, as I tried to create space between my bike and the white van.

This time there was no swearing. I was simply praying to God to bring me safely home to the kids. Even though I had gotten the bike up to 40 miles per hour, this time, shaken to my core, I couldn’t go more than 30. I could feel my hands shaking on the handlebars, gripping it so tight that the sweat pooled in my palms. For the first time, I asked myself, what are you doing? I would never ride a motorcycle at home. Why did I think it was acceptable to ride one here?

Our tour leader realized I was struggling. He kept asking if I was comfortable driving. At that moment, I kept worrying about what they would do with the extra bike. I knew I would have to make a decision. I delayed saying yes to him because I kept thinking it would click and my feet would remember the brakes. The coordination of driving a car would translate to the motorbike. By mid-afternoon, as we were ready for a fuel stop, we arrived at a very busy city. The streets were packed with bikes and people and dogs running loose. With all the activity, I couldn’t see where the group had gone. I only knew to pull to the curb. By the time I clumsily slowed the bike, the tour leader was at my side, taking over for me. As I walked to the group, I heard myself ask the tour leader, “Can you find someone to drive the bike?”

As the trip progressed, I couldn’t help but wish I was driving the bike through the sand and water. But every time I thought about it, my heart would start racing and my palms would become sweaty, as if my body was telling me, it was time to quit.

Later, recounting my story to my brother, I thought about my unfinished will. One that in the wake of another’s recent passing, I had promised to finish before leaving. Quitting to stay alive seemed like a good trade-off.

Arriving in Iceland, I stood in an airport, frozen with panic. My phone was silent. The concierge desk empty. Hungry and tired from the long flight. I walked in circles looking for the pre-arranged shuttle bus. I took another walk around the center of the airport. Maybe this time I would see the buses. I saw buses but they weren’t mine. My shoulders slumped forward under the weight of the two backpacks I was carrying. I could feel beads of sweat forming on the spine of my back and under my arms. My hair fell loose from the bun sitting atop my head and my eyes never stopped moving as I searched for my bus.

A year later, I was in Barcelona, searching for a cathedral I wanted to see. I walked in circles. My phone GPS rerouting each time I changed directions. The blinking blue light an indicator that I was on the wrong path. After thirty minutes, I sat at a café and ordered a cold drink. The table rocked under the weight of my purse. The waitress brought me my drink, condensation running down the side of the glass. I drank it slowly, the hops settled on my lips; I licked it off. I crossed my legs, my foot swinging to the beat of the music I heard ahead of me. I closed my eyes listening; I could feel my lips form a smile.

I know what belonging looks like for me. What does belonging look like for other women?

That is the Geography of Connection.

As a teenager, I didn’t fit in among my classmates. After graduation, I moved around searching for home. Once I had a family, I thought I would see my face in the pictures that sat on their mantels. But I still didn’t.

Belonging isn’t only personal. Groups form around shared identities as well—sport teams, unions, protests. We join them so we don’t have to be on the outside and alone. When we are not part of them, it can feel like exclusion.

Some Americans felt this way during this year’s Super Bowl halftime show. Bad Bunny, a Puerto Rican artist, performed a thirteen-minute set. It was delivered in Spanish and subtitles did not appear on household televisions.

When the NFL announced Bad Bunny as the performer, the reaction was immediate. People said, we don’t speak Spanish. This is an English-speaking country. Before the show, social media feeds were filled with calls for an English-speaking performer. An alternative concert featuring Kid Rock was aired on YouTube. The show was in English.

For some viewers, in that moment, it felt like not belonging.

I recognized the feeling immediately—but from the opposite direction.

I traveled the last four years searching for belonging. I was among people who looked nothing like me, who spoke a language that I didn’t understand, and in histories that I knew nothing of. I found belonging with a young woman who shared her table and family with me during one of her country’s most important holidays, Tet, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year. I didn’t understand the jokes that made her family laugh, and I couldn’t ask for more food or drink. Yet I knew I belonged at her table. I felt it in the offers of more food and the kind hands placed on my arm. Belonging came from a feeling. It did not come from a shared language.

Travel began to show me something I hadn’t understood before. Belonging isn’t always created by sameness. Sometimes it comes from the small signals that tell us we are welcome.

Our sense of belonging is challenged when we don’t see ourselves in the stories that are told or the acts that are performed. When we can’t understand the language being spoken, uncertainty rises. We begin to wonder if we belong.

Not being able to understand the lyrics was equated with exclusion from the show. But exclusion is more than not understanding the lyrics to a musical performance. It’s restricting people from meaningfully participating in society. It is a loss of rights and access. The setting up of barriers to tell people they don’t belong. But exclusion is not the same as not seeing yourself in those around you.

Our country is a pluralistic country, one made of people from all corners of the world. When people immigrated here, they brought with them new foods, cultural traditions, and languages. We love the diversity of foods, but we don’t love the diversity of languages. We frequent Mexican and Chinese restaurants but rarely question if we belong in them. But when we hear unfamiliar languages on the subway or in a restaurant, we question if the people speaking them belong.

We’re taught that belonging comes as a result of sameness. When we gather in the family room and reminisce, we can feel the connections building. A shared language allows us to navigate that experience without thinking about it. Even if we weren’t there originally, we can use language to understand the story. But when the language isn’t known, we don’t hear ourselves reflected back. We find it difficult to identify with and to feel the story. That can make us feel excluded, even when we have a seat at the table. With the Bad Bunny performance, the unfamiliar language left some viewers feeling excluded.

But belonging does not mean seeing yourself in every moment. Instead, it means still having a place when you don’t.

I can feel the vibration of the engine before I hear its roar. I look out over the wing and see the belt loader lifting suitcases into her belly. Cardboard boxes, duffel bags, suitcases covered in clear wrap. If I peer closely enough, I can make out the characters of another language written in black marker. I wonder what stories are hidden in that luggage.

Bags are hefted above shoulders into the overhead bins. Flight attendants traverse the aisles, their heels soft on the carpeted floor. They reach up to close the overfilled bins. Passengers call out across the row, excuse me, I think that’s my seat.

I can feel my legs tingling from the 20,000 steps I walked every day for the last month. I pull out my flight socks—navy blue knee highs, dotted with pink flamingos, tightening as I pull them up my calf. I hurry to get them on, embarrassed to need them. I idly scroll through hundreds of photos. My reminiscing only interrupted by the cacophony of boarding around me. I pull out my phone charger and Kindle, shoving both into the seatback pocket. My backpack, still stuffed, lies at my feet. It holds everything I need to get through this flight.

My seatmates arrive. They will be my companions for the fifteen-hour flight home. On some flights, there is silence. Passengers arrive with their ears covered in headphones, staring at the screen, as if they can make the departure come sooner. The silence is broken only by the apology for needing to use the bathroom.

But on this flight, my seatmates want to talk. Sitting down next to me is a Hmong woman. Her American name is Maryann. I’ve shared that I was in Cambodia and Laos. Her voice slows, as she tells me she is a survivor of the Vietnam War refugee camps. She is just returning from visiting her family. Her husband sits quietly next to her, reading a newspaper in a language I don’t understand.

We talk across the armrest. Her kids. My kids. My home—Chicago. Her home—Wisconsin.

As the plane lifts into the air, the flight attendants begin the in-flight announcements. I look out the window. I plug my nose to clear my ears. I turn back towards Maryann, and she is talking softly to her husband. I put on the headphones and start scrolling the entertainment selection. I watch reruns of Friends until dinner is over.

As the flight attendants turn down the lights and close the shades, I go to sleep. I wake up somewhere between where I was and where I’m headed next.

The ferry moved across the Gambia River slowly, the air thick with the sweat of the passengers. Other entrepreneurs sold socks and phone chargers. There was something for everyone. A second girl, water carefully balanced on her head, ignored someone’s request for water. The women across the aisle, shot off a quick text. A moment later, the girl in the flowing blue dress returned.

I watched the young woman every time she passed by me. I looked at the full water bottle in my bag, but I still put my hand up. Searching my wallet, I found a large bill and showed her. The young woman dug in her purse for a moment, looked up at the women on the bench, shaking her head. One of the women dug into her bag, still talking to her friend. It was then that I noticed the bags of empty water bottles sitting at their feet.

Finally, she handed me an assortment of bills and coins. I trusted them.

I drank my water and handed the empty bottle to the women.

I wandered cautiously, my eyes and ears aware of everything. I saw an old man in his white thobe and sandals, the group of women walking with their heads down, and the kids darting in and out of the crowd, shouting to their friends. I hadn’t ever experienced a market in this way before: alone. In Istanbul, my friend guided me through the crowded bazaar. He knew which stalls to stop at and which ones to go past. He helped me pick out tea and Turkish coffee. In Dubai, my guide translated Arabic letters into words for me, filling in gaps that my brain alone couldn’t do.

That’s when I spotted it: a jewelry tray. Nothing fancy, but its colors caught my eye. Flowers set against a gold background. Its pink petals sprouting from its green leaves. I ran my hand across it, expecting to feel the petals underneath. Instead, my fingers ran smoothly across it. It was marked seventy-five riyals. My mental math failed me, so I said to the shop owner: thirty-six. He silently shook his head and turned toward some other shopper. Not concerned with the American who stood staring at the tray, uncertain about her bargaining skills. The noises of the souk were drowned out by the voice in my head encouraging me to stand firm. After a lifetime of people pleasing and saying yes to everyone—I hadn’t learned how to say no. I wanted the tray. I stood there a moment longer and shouted to him, sixty. He nodded. I’m sure I still overpaid.

I could feel the jewelry tray bumping up against my leg, the plastic bag rustling with each swing of my arm. I replayed my uncomfortable attempt at bargaining. I wondered if I shared the story with my guide the next day, what he would think of my attempt. Was it a successful negotiation? As I walked back toward the entrance, I smelled the garlic and then heard the oil sizzling. My mouth watered.

When I stepped out of the aisles, the courtyard was buzzing. Argentina had just made the finals of the World Cup. At first, there were just a few fans wearing their blue-and-white Messi jerseys.

They were chanting, “Olé olé olé olé, Argentina es un sentimiento, No puedo parar.”

Their voices loud, carrying in the open courtyard. Then another fan showed up. He carried a large speaker slung over his shoulder, background music timing the chants. Soon twenty more fans had showed up, carrying flags, as tall as they were. Then more, Messi shirts slung on their backs. Kids lined the sidewalks, cheering them on. Locals, tourists, fans all watched.

I walked closer to the crowd, its energy propelling me closer to the celebration. Before I knew it, the crowd was twenty deep, and I was standing near the center of it. Flags waving high, music and chanting filled the air. I stood listening with my eyes wide open; my body was pushed forward with the crowd. I could smell the warm, musky cologne of the man in front of me. Soon, I could feel my lips mouthing the words, clapping my hands to the beat. From bags to flags, just like that. I didn’t know the chants, and I didn’t have a flag, but I still cheered, standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers.

After a few strangers lifted me out of the crowd, I walked out of the souk. Spent but light, I hailed a taxi. Sitting quietly in the backseat, I relived my night. The aisles. The birds. The negotiation. The courtyard. Back at my hotel, the room was quiet. I laid out my purchases and took a bite of the apple the room attendant had left me.

That night, I carried home two souvenirs: the jewelry tray in my bag and the memory of the courtyard still ringing in my ears. One small and personal. The other loud and collective. I’m still not sure which one was meant to last.

On my first day, I decided to see La Sagrada Familia. Everyone said it was the one place not to miss. It showed up on every list, every recommendation. I left early and started walking.

But I couldn’t find it.

I walked in circles, passing other churches, doubling back, checking my phone as it rerouted. Each wrong turn made me more frustrated than it should have.

Eventually, I stopped trying. I found a café in a small plaza, ordered tapas, and drank a cold beer slowly. I watched people move past me—tourists drifted, locals lingered, and artists took up space. I sat there longer than planned and wondered if this was all I was meant to do.

When I headed back out, I came across the church in the photo—the Cathedral of Barcelona. I hadn’t been looking for it. It wasn’t part of my mental itinerary. It had been overshadowed by Gaudí’s unfinished cathedral, the one everyone talks about. But there it was anyway, its Gothic spires sharp against the sky.

I stood in the plaza, gazing at it longer than I expected to.

I kept thinking about how much effort I’d put into getting to the right place, seeing the right thing, doing the trip correctly. How quickly frustration showed up when things didn’t go as planned. I wondered how often I move through my life that way—chasing what I think I’m supposed to find instead of paying attention to where I’ve already landed.

The photos I took that day are my souvenirs. Not because they captured something famous, but because they hold the moment I stopped trying so hard. I don’t know if that’s what belonging looks like. I only know that when I stopped chasing the plan, something else showed up.

And I keep wondering how often that happens—how much I might miss by insisting on getting where I thought I was supposed to go.

This essay is rooted in my lived experience as a woman, a mother, and a traveler who writes about autonomy, belonging, and everyday decision-making. While food is the surface subject, the essay examines broader themes of consent, power, and how early conditioning around “small” choices can echo into adulthood.

I am not writing as a food critic or cultural historian, but as someone reflecting on how ordinary moments—what we hear, what we tolerate, what we say yes to—shape our sense of agency, and how those choices are modeled for children. The experiences described are personal and directly lived.

I ate sushi in Japan and alligator in New Orleans. And it was my choice.

The young girl’s mouth quivered and her eyes glistened. She hated cheese—the smell on her fingers and the texture on her teeth—but her father made her eat it anyway. Sandwiches, scrambled eggs, nothing was off limits. Sometimes she slipped it off her baloney sandwich and passed it under the table to her brother. Other times, she simply ran to the bathroom and spat it into the toilet. It didn’t matter how many times she said she hated it, the outcome was the same every time.

She began dreading weekends—her stomach clenching whenever she heard her father say, “Who’s ready to eat?”—and she wished instead for the free school lunches. School lunches with steamed cheeseburgers. At least she could easily remove that cheese and didn’t have to worry about who was watching her. But at home, when she could no longer avoid cheese, she would take small bites of her sandwich, smoosh it into balls that she could then push to the back of her throat to swallow without tasting it. Throwing it out was wasteful; spitting it out was ungrateful. Her protests dismissed. She was a child after all and didn’t know what was best for her. She finally stopped protesting and she simply ate it. The tone of his voice was all she needed to hear to know anything else was unacceptable.

That girl was me.

But also, she isn’t just me. It’s the woman who is told to change her clothes or the one who foregoes her dream of traveling the world. It’s the woman who said yes when she meant no, all because someone didn’t agree with her choice. Because she and I learned early that our voices were silenced if we tried to protest.

Cheese-free decades later, I was now free to say yes—to what I ate. But that didn’t mean it came without cost. Whenever my friends suggested Italian, I knew what I was having for dinner. A plate of spaghetti that I could make at home for $5. Sometimes, I would push back and suggest Thai or American. They’d say to me, Didn’t we just have that last weekend?Other times, I could see the disappointment on their faces because they wanted me to enjoy my meal too, but it often came at their expense. Like with pizza. Who orders no cheese on their pizza without apologizing to everyone else at the table? I would have if I thought a mass mutiny wouldn’t have occurred.

And then there were the times the kids asked me to make them grilled cheese. I wanted to say, No, I won’t make it for you, but instead I pinched my nose and held my breath as I unwrapped the stinky package.

Japan, December 2023. I was on a private food tour. Stops for tempura: kisu, salmon, lotus root, squid, eggplant, and then okonomiyaki, Japanese fried pancakes. I said yes to it all. But then my guide announced our next stop: a local sushi restaurant. I got quiet. I was afraid if he heard me speak, he would hear the voice of a child protesting a food that she knew she didn’t like. As we walked, I was taken back to a time when I couldn’t make my own decisions about what I ate. I could hear myself defending my choice: I don’t like the way the meat tastes on my tongue or the way the fish gets stuck on my teeth when I take a bite. The smell hitting my nostrils long before my taste buds. I thought of all the strategies I had used as a child when I had to eat cheese. Would they work here?

But then I started to wonder, Why do I need to use those strategies? Why can’t I just say, “I don’t like sushi.”

I was paralyzed with fear.

We sat at a table in the crowded restaurant. The backs of our chairs scraping against each other, elbows of people at the bar pulled in close to their bodies so just one more person could sit. My guide took the menu and asked, “Do you like sushi?”

I wanted to say no but instead I nodded. My head not matching what was happening inside my body. My stomach clenching and my mouth suddenly dry, wondering what I had gotten myself into. I wasn’t a foodie. I hadn’t reinvented myself. I was the same child afraid to say no to cheese.

But as I watched his eyes light up as he described the importance of fish to the Japanese, I heard the pride in his voice. I looked around the restaurant and saw plates piled high with salmon, yellowtail, tuna, and mackerel and smelled the wasabi, reminiscent of beef sandwiches from home. Suddenly, my stomach grumbled and my mouth salivated. I was no longer afraid to say yes.

When the sushi arrived, I chose a piece and took a bite, allowing it to first sit on my tongue and then dissolve away. As our server came to fill our sake, he filled each cup to the top, overflowing into a red-and-black lacquered box that caught it. I took a sip. And another. With each sip, it became easier to take the next bite, and the next. At the end of the meal, I was eating sushi.

Two years later, I was sitting in a restaurant in New Orleans with my son, my daughter, and a long-time friend. Creole sounds and Cajun scents filled the air. We looked at the menu, full of New Orleans staples—fried catfish, jambalaya, blackened chicken—foods and tastes that were familiar to me. But then I saw it. Alligator. The menu read: “slow-simmered alligator tails in a dark, aromatic roux with onions, peppers, and celery.”

I’d never tasted alligator before, and my mouth watered at the description. Confidently, I told the kids, “I’m going to have alligator.”

They nodded their heads in acquiescence. “Sounds good,” they said.

“Or maybe the catfish. What do you think?” I asked them.

They replied, “Both sound good.”

When the waitress arrived, I ordered alligator. It was a proclamation.

Later that night, I wondered how many other times I had said yes when I meant no. Working late. Driving when I was exhausted. Having sex when I didn’t feel good. What had I been teaching my kids about saying yes because you have to, and not because you want to? That night, the shift—from I have to to I want to—was mine. And my kids witnessed it.

After the meal, they asked me, “Was it good?”

I nodded and with a satisfied smile on my face said, “Delicious.”

Last weekend I was in Chicago. Sitting on the couch in the Airbnb, I fumbled through streaming apps trying to find the Bills game. A weak Wi-Fi signal hampering my efforts. The outcome—important to playoff seeding.

As I kept refreshing the Xfinity app, the kids asked me why didn’t I just go somewhere to watch? I heard myself start to tell them I hadn’t showered or I didn’t sleep well. If they looked at me closely, they might have seen the evidence. But I stopped and just shrugged. I couldn’t explain to them something that I didn’t quite understand myself. Thankfully, the Wi-Fi connected, and the game came onto the screen, a response no longer needed.

Later that same night, alone with the dog and cat, I went back to the kids’ question, and asked myself, why didn’t I go out for the game? I thought about the games I’ve watched at the pizza place near my new apartment in DC. The one I stumbled upon during a Thursday night football game at the start of the season.

The pizza place? Andy’s Pizza, and I’ve become a regular this season. Early game—no problem—coffee, a quick shower and head out. For the late afternoon game, I do chores too. Some Sundays, I throw on my Josh Allen jersey and head out for the pre-game. Others, I walk in at kick-off, my status in the Bills Mafia a secret.

Sundays weren’t always like this. Groceries needed replenishing and uniforms had to be washed. Family and friends iMessages left on read. The DVR full of shows that I hadn’t watched yet. More times than I want to admit, I left my phone on silent, ghosting friends or dates. I couldn’t get away from the responsibilities of parenting so I would begrudgingly shower, counting the minutes until I could be laying on the couch again. I had to restore depleted energy from the week before while reserving energy for the week ahead. Sundays were recovery from being mom, worker, friend, no one and someone all at the same time.

Back to Andy’s. The first time I went to Andy’s for Sunday football, I left my jersey at home, opting for a Bills t-shirt instead. I walked in and found a seat at the far end of the bar, waiting patiently for the bartender to notice me. While I waited, my fingers fiddled with an empty straw wrapper left from another guest. After I ordered, I brought out my Kindle. During active plays, my eyes stayed fixated on the screen. But during commercials and half-time, my trusty electronic friend masked my awkwardness at sitting alone.

By late fall, I had been going to Andy’s for several weeks. I still peruse the menu even though I know what I want: a slice of pizza and a beer. Some weeks, the bar is empty, and I choose a stool right in the middle. My eyes dart between the four big screens screwed on the wall. Each one playing a different game. Other weeks, I squeeze in wherever I can find an open spot. Every week, strangers become friends. High fiving when our teams make a big play. Criticizing mistakes. Sitting among strangers, it’s easy to be an expert.

One Sunday last month, Andy’s was empty when I arrived and I chose a seat at the bar. I was wearing my Josh Allen jersey, a slice of pizza ordered, and my favorite beer placed before me before I even had time to take off my jacket and look around. I noticed a table behind me filling in, fans supporting the Bills and their opponent. After exchanging a quiet hello, I turned back to the game. Fans watching other games filled in the tables and quiet conversations began to fill the air.

And that’s when it happened. About halfway through the game, the Bills got an interception. My fists pounded the bar and I shouted out, “YES!” Quickly, my head snapped around, my cheeks reddened, and I started to apologize. I searched their faces for any indication of judgment. Nothing. They were laughing among themselves, oblivious to me. I turned toward the other end of the bar: had my outburst been in my head? I turned back in my seat, my eyebrows creased and my head tilted, a question lingering on the tip of my tongue. But before I could fully form it, I was drawn back to the TV by the announcers.

This happened before on a small island in the Gulf of Thailand. The morning, I arrived, my Facebook feed was full of Bills Mafia posts, reminding me that it was almost game time. I found a restaurant for breakfast and set up my phone to stream the game. I sat quietly sipping a Bloody Mary and eating my eggs. Between bites, I leaned in close to the small screen, trying to read the closed captioning. Every few minutes, I would hit the table or throw my hands in the air, and then quickly look around, half expecting all eyes on this crazed American. But each time I looked around the restaurant, all I could see were servers refilling water and tables being cleaned. And each time, I would take a bite of my food and resume watching the game.

As I was leaving Andy’s last month, I said to the bartender, “I won’t be back for a few weeks.” She reached out to me with her arms. Surprised, I tentatively opened myself up to receive her hug. I hugged her back. My shoulders stiff, my hands not quite meeting each other on her back. After she let me go, I didn’t know if she could feel my hesitation, so I offered a quick goodbye and hurried out.

I walked back to my apartment that night, my head tucked deep into my coat, shielding myself from the cold wind, and I thought to myself, she knows me. She looks for the guest that cheers for the Bills.

Pulled out of my thoughts back in the Airbnb, I had to ask myself, did I have valid reasons or was I simply making excuses when I didn’t go out for games? I thought about all the years I lived in Chicago and that I had never gone to a bar to watch a game. But in DC, I developed a pattern. What was I avoiding in Chicago—groups of people high-fiving each other, and my hand hanging alone in the air?

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My luggage was in Paris. I was in Dakar.

The horn buzzed loudly and the hum of the baggage carousel started. The conveyor belt lurched forward and the suitcases—colorful sets, plain black ones, large boxes—began passing through the black rubber flaps. I stood among the crowd, patiently looking for my small gray and brown suitcase. The one I carried past the check-in desk back in Washington DC. The one I asked the desk agent to gate check for me.

I turned on my phone, keeping one eye turned toward the conveyor belt. I opened Outlook—3 a.m. back home—nothing to read. I started aimlessly scrolling videos. I looked up as a bag like mine passed by. Then I saw the look on another passenger’s face—her lips turned upward and eyes brighter—nope, not mine

As I waited, I shifted my weight one leg to the other, back and forth, back and forth, seemingly timed with the rhythm of some childhood jingle. The suitcases and boxes had thinned, the crowd dispersing as people found their bags.

After the crowd dispersed, I began to look earnestly for someone, anyone who could help me. Finding no one nearby, my eyes continued to scan the baggage area and finally settled on the service office. I hefted my backpack on my shoulders, picked up my tote, and began walking in the direction of the office. As I walked, I was already thinking: what do I have on me and what will I need? I ran through a mental inventory of the essentials. Change of clothes, check. Toothbrush and toothpaste, check. And then, helmet. I exhaled my breath and said a silent prayer, thank God, my trip won’t be a bust. Behind the large customer service window were desks piled high with papers, and groups of workers chatting amongst themselves.

After filing my claim, I glanced at the paper the clerk handed me, stuffed it into my shoulder bag, and walked through customs. A moment of oddness passed through me as I set my backpack and shoulder bag on the x-ray machine. Realizing I was a little late getting out to the waiting area, I hurriedly grabbed my bags from the machine and checked my phone for my driver’s location. As I walked out of the airport hall, I was taken back three years to another airport hall, this one in Iceland, after my first transatlantic flight.

The overnight flight landed in Reykjavík as the sun rose. Still drowsy from no sleep, I slowly gathered my belongings and followed the crush of people off the plane. I followed them through the long hallways on the way to passport control, confident where they were taking me. As the immigration officer stamped my passport, I gave myself a pat on the back, and thought to myself, this isn’t so hard.

But just as quickly as the spring in my step became more noticeable, it was gone. The crowd turned toward baggage claim. I abruptly stopped and remembered I hadn’t checked bags. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going and next thing I knew, I was walking in circles. They weren’t metaphorical circles. They were literal circles around the airport. With each pass, I looked toward the customer service desk, hoping to see someone sitting there so they could tell me where to go. Nope, no one. Out the doors into the cool Icelandic air, looking for some telltale sign of my prearranged shuttle. Nothing there either. I looked at my watch, wondering when the customer service rep would be back. A large growl reminded me I hadn’t eaten since dinner, hours before.

I checked the overhead signs, trying to get oriented. But my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing, and I felt a sense of unease begin to rise up in me. After walking in circles for thirty minutes, I couldn’t even find my bus.

The longer I walked and the more steps I retraced, the clammier my hands got. My shoulders ached from carrying two backpacks. Asking myself, why did I think it was a good idea to carry backpacks instead of a suitcase. I knew why, I wanted to look like a seasoned traveler. The one who belongs on tour buses seeing volcanoes and geysers that shoot hundreds of feet into the air. The one who can find their bus or knows how to use their phone.

But that persona was about to come crashing down as my internal dialogue kicked into overdrive. Tracy, you have no business traveling to another country, let alone one on the other side of the ocean. Focus Tracy, you need to catch that bus, you have a tour scheduled. You can do this. I was willing to tell myself anything that would ensure I got on that bus.

A year later, I would find myself roaming another airport—this time in Bangkok.

This time I had dozens of stamps in my passport. I walked through the terminal, occasionally checking the signs to be sure I was still headed in the right direction. I quickly passed through immigration and grabbed my bags from the carousel.

Outside baggage claim, the airport was complete chaos. People were pushed elbow to elbow. Trolleys packed high with bags. I carefully navigated to the meeting point. I knew what I was looking for, Section B2. The email said: your name will be on a sign. As I entered the main hall, I could see hundreds of placards with names on them. Voices shouted out, “Taxi, taxi,” competing with the hum of the air conditioning and the overhead PA system.

I continued to walk along the narrow aisle, sidestepping small children and slow walkers, rolling my suitcases in front of me, scanning the signs for my name. But I didn’t see my name. I was tired and frustrated, and every time I walked past the automatic doors, the hot, humid air assaulted my skin. I pulled out my phone and looked for the familiar red circle, telling me I had a message. Nothing. I switched the Wi-Fi off and then on again. Maybe my phone hadn’t gotten the signal yet. I sent a message. I had to decide: wait where I was for the ping of a returned message or keep looking? I checked the time and looked again for the large B2 sign and slowly took in the sights and sounds of the great hall I was in. I don’t remember how it resolved but I do know that the panic that I felt in Iceland never got its energy.

Back in Dakar, as I walked out of the airport hall, toward my driver, I carried only my backpack and shoulder bag. He asked me, “Where are the rest of your bags?” I shrugged my shoulders, and said, “Looks like they were left behind in New York and are currently in Paris.”

In the car, I opened the airline app and sent a message, “Hello, when should I expect my bags in Dakar?” And then I closed my eyes.

After a week of winding my way from DC to Oxford to Chicago and then flying back east again, I’ve had hours of quiet in cars and airports—the kind of hours that make you sit with the questions you’ve been avoiding. One of them: What is Home?

Last week, we checked into the Airbnb I rented in the Chicago suburbs. Nothing was remarkable about the place—just a clean rental with neutral walls and a couch that has certainly hosted many families before ours. And yet, as I walked from room to room, I felt an unexpected ache rise up in me. Not sadness, exactly—something more like recognition. A quiet reminder of how much has changed in one year.

Since this time last December, I changed jobs, sold my house, and moved east to Washington, DC. I traveled through Cambodia and Laos, celebrated Tet with Minh and her family, wandered the streets of Paris and the castle ruins of Wales. I wrote a book. I began the next one. And somewhere in the middle of all of that movement, I started imagining where I might go from here.

I wouldn’t trade any of it—the job, the move, the passports filling up with stamps, the late-night notes that turned into chapters. But change, even the kind we choose, has a way of brushing up against the more fragile parts of us.

And nothing made that clearer than standing in a holiday season without the very things that once defined it for me.

For nearly two decades, Christmas meant unpacking the same boxes: the tree ornaments I collected one by one, the snow globes and school treasures the kids brought home, the embroidered towels we never actually used, the reindeers and lighted trees for the yard that made our house glow during the long Midwest nights. These rhythms were anchors—small rituals that said, You live here. This is your home. You belong here.

But this year, our Airbnb is devoid of any memories. The walls are bare. The fridge holds nothing but frozen meals and coffee creamer. The trash fills quickly with takeout containers. It is a place to stay, not a place that knows us.

And in that absence, I felt a flicker of fear:
What if I’m losing my sense of home altogether?

Is home a physical structure—the address we return to each night?
Is it the place filled with our belongings, where we drop our bags and finally exhale?
Is it where our children are, or where they return to us?
Or is home something far less visible—a memory map we carry inside, shaped by every room, every person, every season that has ever held us?

These questions followed me all the way from Chicago back to DC, where a tiny tabletop Christmas tree (purchased on a whim from Target) now sits in the corner of my apartment. It’s the smallest tree I’ve ever owned, barely two feet tall, nothing more than a strand of lights wrapped around a miniature frame with a few generic ornaments hanging from it.

And yet, in the quiet of the evening, when the lights reflect softly on the wall, I feel something familiar. Not the old definition of home—the one rooted in stability and sameness—but a new one, made of movement and reinvention and the willingness to let life shift without losing myself in the process.

Maybe home isn’t where we settle.
Maybe home is what evolves with us.
Maybe it’s the part of ourselves that stays steady when everything else changes.

I’m not sure I’ll ever arrive at a final answer. But for now, I’m learning to see home not as a fixed point, but as something inside me—one that continues to adapt, reshape, and travel wherever I go next.

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The Geography of Connection is an ongoing practice of noticing connections: between people, between a person and a place, between the roles we inhabit and the selves we carry within them, and between the objects we hold and the memories they contain. Sometimes that noticing happens in marketplaces or classrooms, kitchens or city streets. Other times it appears at home, at work, in passing conversations, or in moments that almost go unnoticed.

Each moment becomes a small point on the map.

I’m sharing this work in a few forms:

A Year of Connection — short notes drawn from everyday moments and travel.

Scenes of Connection — scene-based essays centered on shared moments and the people I encounter.

Scenes of Self — essays where the tension lives inside my own experience.

The Souvenir Shelf — object-anchored stories about memory, meaning, and what we carry.

Field Notes — sketches and observations that may remain fragments or later gather into essays.

Together, these pieces form a body of work tracing how belonging takes shape across time and place—and how it is signaled, structured, and recognized in everyday life.