Tulips, Travel, and the Thing I Missed the Most

I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the better part of two weeks, drifting from one city to the next across the Netherlands and Belgium, letting each place leave its mark before moving on to the next. It was one of those trips that sneaks up on you—not because you didn’t expect it to be good, but because it quietly becomes something more. The river cruise alone exceeded anything I had imagined, not just in the places we saw, but in the people I shared it with. There’s something about traveling with a group of men who show up open, curious, and willing to connect that turns a trip into something deeper. Day by day, you could feel it happening—conversations getting longer, laughter getting easier, friendships forming without anyone forcing it. Just… unfolding.
Even Amsterdam, a city I thought I already knew, found ways to surprise me again. That’s the funny thing about revisiting a place—you think you’re coming back to something familiar, but if you’re paying attention, it reveals something new. I wandered streets I’d somehow missed before, noticed details that didn’t register on earlier trips, and let myself experience it without the pressure of needing to “see it all.” Somewhere in the middle of all that, I ended up watching The Devil Wears Prada 2 in what might be the most beautiful movie theater I’ve ever stepped into, the kind of place where the setting alone feels like part of the story. And then there were the tulip fields at Keukenhof—rows and rows of color stretching farther than your eyes could follow, almost unreal in their intensity, like someone turned the saturation all the way up on the world.
Of course, it wasn’t all poetic perfection. The pollen made sure of that. There were moments I genuinely wondered if my sinuses were going to stage a full rebellion and take me down right there in a field of flowers. But honestly, if you’re going to go, that’s not a bad backdrop. There are worse ways to meet your end than surrounded by beauty, even if you’re cursing it under your breath at the same time.
Now, as you’re reading this, I’ve been home for less than twelve hours. I’m writing it ahead of time, knowing full well that by the time Thursday rolls around—when I’m actually scheduled to land sometime around 10 p.m.—there’s a good chance the reality won’t match the plan. Flights run late. Connections get missed. Bodies hit a wall. I already know I probably won’t make it to coffee talk, and truthfully, I’m not even pretending otherwise. There’s a kind of exhaustion that settles in after a trip like this, not just physical, but the kind that comes from taking in so much—new places, new conversations, new energy—that your system needs a minute to catch up.
And yet, underneath all of that, there’s something else.
Relief.
There is nothing quite like coming home. Dorothy had it right all along. As much as I love to travel—and I do, deeply—there’s a quiet, grounding comfort that nothing else really replaces. It’s in the small, almost forgettable things. The way your bed feels without you having to adjust to it. The way the water hits just right in your own shower without you fiddling with unfamiliar knobs. The taste of your coffee in the morning, not just the flavor, but the ritual of it, the familiarity of how it fits into your day. Even the way the light moves through your space, how you already know where it will land when you wake up, how it spills across the room at a certain hour like it’s been waiting for you to come back.
These are the things you don’t think about when you’re living inside them. They fade into the background, becoming part of the rhythm you barely notice. But when you step away—when you spend days or weeks navigating the unfamiliar—you start to see them again for what they are. Not just conveniences, but anchors. Little pieces of stability that remind you where you belong.
Travel opens you up. It stretches you, challenges you, connects you in ways that staying put never quite can. It gives you stories, perspective, and sometimes even pieces of yourself you didn’t know were missing. But coming home… that’s where it all settles. That’s where everything you’ve experienced has a place to land.
And right now, after all the movement, all the beauty, all the unexpected moments and connections, I can say it without hesitation—
I’m really, truly glad to be home.