It felt more like coming home to myself— the familiar scent, the recognizable windows and shape of the house— I knew it all. Inside, I simply had to wipe off the dust. This is who I have always been. This realization didn't just occur during grand moments; it happened in the in-between spaces, while filling up the gas tank, engaging in conversations with strangers on trails, or embracing the silence.

When you're alone, gazing out at oceans, roadways, mountains, and lakes, there is no proof or standing ovation. "That was for you," my friend used to say whenever I noticed something she hadn't— a cute cat on the street, a funny billboard sign. As I embarked on my final descent and tears welled up, I felt a wave of nostalgia for the life I had just minutes ago, knowing that I was stepping into a new chapter while leaving behind one I had longed for. I reflected on my peaks, summits, eight-hour driving days, meals cooked amidst the trees, and all the stars I witnessed in the sky. "That was for you," I thought to myself.