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For most of my life, my success felt easy to measure. I tied my worth to numbers like grades and salaries or concrete achievements, like fancy job titles or awards.

But after two years of building a fast-paced career in New York City, I reached a breaking point. I felt unfulfilled and disconnected from myself, and I yearned for a different type of adventure.

So, I left my job and booked a one-way flight to London, hoping to rediscover a sense of purpose by traveling through Europe.

My friends and family thought I was crazy, but I knew I needed a change. I thought travel could be my new metric for measuring success. Instead of shooting for raises and promotions, I’d see just how many countries I could visit and how far I could get from home.

Although I saw lots of places, in the end, “success” looked nothing like I imagined and a lot like the most ordinary place of all: my childhood bedroom.

Travel gave me a renewed sense of self

As soon as I landed in London, I was on the move. Within three months, I’d already crossed eight countries off my list.

From England and Germany to Spain and the Scottish Highlands, I moved through Europe in solitude and realized how important freedom and adventure were to me.

With every missed train, foreign fling, and mistake, I discovered the depth of my own strength and resilience. I’d never felt more alive, but eventually, the pace wore me down. I didn’t need another passport stamp — I needed stillness.

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I was running low on savings, sleeping in shared hostels, and trying to hide my growing anxiety with a smile. Traveling solo meant every decision and mistake was mine to handle.

Even on the most beautiful days, I felt a quiet emptiness. Every time I unpacked, I was already preparing to leave again.

However, when I finally visited Slovakia, my family’s roots, something shifted. There, I met up with relatives I hadn’t seen in years and visited the house my grandfather built by hand. Despite my broken Slovak, I felt so understood.

The defining moment of my trip, though, came a few weeks later when I was at a museum in Poland. It was dark, a winter storm was brewing, and I’d accidentally gotten stuck inside after misreading what time it closed.

After 30 minutes of yelling, a security guard finally let me out. With a 45-minute walk to the last bus, and just 25 minutes to make it before departure, I ran.

I arrived breathless, alone, and scared, but I’d made it — and I’ve never felt more proud of myself.

No one saw me. No one congratulated me. But in that moment, I realized I was already enough. I didn’t need to prove anything. I just had to believe in myself.

Despite my personal growth, coming home felt like a failure

After six months of traveling, I returned to New York and saw both the city and myself differently. Everyone wanted to know what I had seen, but I didn’t know how to explain how my trip had changed me.

I didn’t come back with a job offer or a hot English boyfriend. Instead, I came home with an invisible treasure chest of stories — and something more important: self-trust.

Unfortunately, though, self-trust doesn’t pay rent, and given that I’d quit my job and spent most of my savings abroad, I had to move back in with my parents while I figured out my next move.

At first, it felt like failure, and my ego took a hit. I’d spent months traveling the world, navigating train stations in new languages and trusting myself with every wrong turn — but now, I was back in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by old journals and a version of myself I’d outgrown.

For the first time in years, I had to answer to someone other than myself. My parents had questions: What was I going to do for work? When would I start thinking about marriage? Had I thought about going to law school?

They meant well, but I didn’t have any answers for them. I couldn’t even cry in peace without someone knocking on my door to check in.

Plus, I had to look for a new job while figuring out how to explain a six-month gap on my résumé. My passport was full of stamps and my heart was full of stories, but none of it looked like “success.”

Still, in all that discomfort, I realized something I hadn’t understood before.

Success used to mean being the high achiever, the girl with a plan. Now, it means something simpler: Showing up for myself when things are messy and giving myself grace to move forward without a plan.

Yes, I’m still living at home, but I know this is just part of my journey. For the first time, I’m charting a path that’s mine, and even without a perfect itinerary, it finally feels like I’m going somewhere that matters.