working on a new piece about the quiet joy of traveling to the same place summer after summer—which is harder for me than it probably should be.

i have such an insatiable hunger for exploring places i’ve never been. even when i fall hopelessly in love with a city, a village, a remote beach, my internal compass always pulls me somewhere new—an unspoken urgency to see as much of this wonder-filled world (hehe, see what i did there?) as i can.

still, i appreciate how the calm of returning quiets that urgency. in a familiar place, i can exhale and surrender to muscle memory.

do you prefer the comfort of tradition or the exhilaration of novelty?