So…Did Mexico Actually Happen?

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I’ve been back from Mexico for a little shy of three weeks, and it just feels…weird. It sorta feels like it never happened—like it was just a really awesome dream.

While I was there, I had the realization that it felt like home. Turns out, it feels more like home than my actual home.

In some ways, I think it doesn’t feel like it actually happened because I’ve purposely not thought about it too much. I think missing my life in Lo de Marcos will overwhelm me if I let myself really go there.

I miss the beach. The animals. The community. Walking to the grocery store. Making pico de gallo a couple times a week.

Life felt more full there, yet somehow simpler and more chill.

So, to keep the “homesickness” at bay, I’ve let my nine weeks there feel like a dream.

I guess that’s part of the process of this experiment I’m conducting in building my ideal life—learning what home actually is.

Sometimes it takes leaving a place to show you where you really want to belong.

Returning to Lo de Marcos was already the plan before I even left. But now I wonder if it will end up being a more permanent return.

Maybe that’s something I’ll figure out along the way.

For now, I’m trying to let myself remember the dream without letting myself get too sad that I woke up.

And maybe the point of this whole experiment isn’t necessarily to find one place that I can call home forever.

Maybe it’s to figure out what makes somewhere feel like home—and then build a life that gives me the freedom to find those places again and again.