too much of a good thing

I’ve been revisiting a rather specific feeling—or maybe, lack thereof —over the past few weeks.

It goes like this:

A few years ago, after the apex of non-stop travel, I had just wrapped up one of the most incredible stays imaginable: a converted convent in Antigua, Guatemala. I was en route to Guatemala City to catch a flight to Medellín, Colombia.

I’d been to Guatemala a few months earlier—though this was my first time in Antigua—so the route felt somewhat familiar. Medellín, on the other hand, would be a first. A dream destination.

And yet… not a tremble.
Not a flutter in my stomach.
Not a spark of excitement.

I wasn’t dreading it—but I wasn’t lit up either. There was no build-up to departure. No anticipation. It was just another day in the life of me.

I never stopped feeling grateful for the life I was living. But in that moment, I was flying to Colombia the same way someone might head to the grocery store on a Saturday.

And while Colombia is fantastically special, it just… wasn’t, to me.

It’s not you, it’s me.

I thought about it then, and I think about it now:
Even the most longed-for, heart-held dreams can only crest for so long.

Eventually, the wave must crash ashore.
And once it does—
it’s gone.

Ebb and flow. The ocean always sends another.