Almost Two Years!

That’s how long it’s been since we left.

On November 2nd, 2024, we packed up our lives, climbed into the truck, and drove away from the place we had called home.

I was thirteen years old.

I knew we were about to go on an adventure, a 650 day, lifetime adventure. This was the last photo taken before heading to the border.

I just didn’t know that the biggest journey wouldn’t be across a continent—it would be the one happening inside me.

Over the past two years I have spent countless hours watching the world pass by through a window. I crossed South America from coast to coast and back again. I’ve stood at the southern tip of the continent, where the land seems to simply run out, and nearly it’s northern tip at Cabo de la Vela in Colombia, where the desert meets the Caribbean Sea. I’ve stood on Peru’s rugged Pacific coast at one of the continent’s westernmost points and crossed Brazil at its widest. We’ve driven for days through scorching heat where the endless highway shimmered into the distance. I’ve watched glaciers sparkle under the sun then tumble into the ocean, deserts stretch endlessly into the horizon, mountains disappear into the clouds, and jungles come alive with sounds I’d never heard before.

I experienced things thirteen, fourteen and now fifteen-year-old me never even knew existed.

But when people ask me about this trip, they usually ask about the places.

The truth is, the places are only half the story.

The other half isn’t something you can point to on a map. It’s who I became along the way.

When we left, I was loud. I was impulsive. If something annoyed me, everyone knew about it. I reacted before I thought, and patience wasn’t exactly one of my strengths.

Somewhere along thousands of kilometres of winding roads, border crossings, sunrise and sunsets, mechanical breakdowns, ferry rides, and long days in the truck, that changed.

Not overnight.

Not because of one single moment.

It happened slowly, without me even noticing.

Living on the road teaches you something that everyday life often doesn’t. You learn that not everything goes according to plan.

Sometimes roads close.

Sometimes the weather changes.

Sometimes your truck breaks down in the middle of nowhere, and somehow you have to find a way to fix it.

I watched my dad do exactly that when an engine mount broke in the middle of rural Brazil. At the time, the repair seemed impossible as we were miles from anywhere. Somehow he figured it out, and we kept going. Watching that taught me that impossible problems often just need patience, creativity, and determination.

Sometimes plans fall apart completely.

You can either get angry about it, or you can adapt.

Eventually, adapting just becomes part of who you are.

I learned to slow down.

To think before I spoke.

To be patient.

To understand that not every problem needs an immediate reaction, and that often it just requires time.

Of course, travelling wasn’t always easy.

For two years our truck was our rolling home – bedroom and living room, dining and classroom. Privacy became something that barely existed. There were days when all I wanted was a room to myself and a door I could close.

But there were just as many moments when I loved having my family close by. Some of my favourite memories are the conversations we had while another country rolled past the windows, watching movies together on rainy evenings, celebrating birthdays in unexpected places, and laughing together after long days on the road.

School came with its own challenges too, balancing assignments while constantly moving between countries, time zones, campsites, cafés, and unreliable internet connections.

But school wasn’t always from a textbook.

Most of the time, the learning was constant, everything was always new and happening all around me. Think of it this way: a textbook can teach you chemistry formulas or biological codes. It can’t teach you the feeling of pride and accomplishment that comes from completing an independent eight-day hike, what petrified wood feels like beneath your fingers, or how your lungs feel when you’re hiking at 5,000 metres.

It can’t teach you what it feels like to be standing at 5,600 metres, with the wind blowing hard, yet every breath feels unsatisfying because there simply isn’t enough oxygen. It can’t teach you what a wild baby boa constrictor feels like sliding across your skin, what it’s like to see Brazilian cave art thousands of years old with your own eyes, or the persistence it takes to finally learn how to properly carve turns with a kite, or the trust of my life in a total stranger when paragliding.

And that’s part of the reason I loved school on the road so much. You keep learning, whether you have a textbook in front of you or not, and every day brought a new, unexpected adventure.

Looking back now, I can honestly say it was.

One moment in particular has stayed with me.

In the middle of 2025, somewhere in Peru, I watched a group of children running towards a tiny local schoolhouse. Their backpacks were small, and the building was simple. There were no glass windows, and possibly no electricity. The playground was made up of painted old tires, a rusty swing, and a slide that looked almost deadly. Yet the children couldn’t wait to get there.

It made me stop and think.

School had always been something I expected to have. It was just… there. Something I occasionally complained about. But watching those children reminded me that education isn’t something everyone has easy access to.

It isn’t something to take for granted.

In fact, that’s probably the biggest lesson these two years have taught me:

Don’t take anything for granted.

In fact, that’s probably the biggest lesson these two years have taught me:

Don’t take anything for granted.

Not your home.

Not your friends.

Not your education.

Not even your family.

Not even the ordinary moments that seem boring while you’re living them.

Because life changes quickly.

Sometimes in the blink of an eye.

The things you assume will always be there won’t always be there.

Travel has a funny way of changing your definition of “normal.”

“Normal” became crossing another border.

“Normal” became hearing different languages every day.

“Normal” became waking up somewhere completely new.

“Normal” became adapting.

And maybe that’s why my definition of home changed too.

Before we left, I thought home was a place on a map.

Now I don’t think that’s true anymore.

Home isn’t necessarily where you grew up.

Home is wherever you feel like you belong.

And freedom isn’t just about travelling. It’s about feeling curious enough to explore, brave enough to try something unfamiliar, and open enough to let the world change you.

When we first left, if someone had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have confidently said an actress.

These days, my answer is different.

Now I dream about becoming a pilot.

After spending two years watching the world roll past my window, I can’t help wondering what it would look like from the cockpit instead. Flying across countries, seeing mountains, oceans, and cities from the sky feels like the perfect way to continue exploring long after this journey ends.

Although I still wouldn’t mind doing some voice acting along the way!

As we make our way home, my emotions are mixed.

Part of me isn’t ready for this adventure to end. There are still roads I want to drive, countries I want to explore, and places I’ve only begun to discover.

But another part of me is excited.

I’m excited to see my friends again.

I’m excited to get back into sports.

I’m excited to walk into a real classroom instead of opening my laptop at another campsite or café.

I know returning to a routine will be an adjustment after two years of constant movement. It won’t feel normal at first.

But I think I’m ready.

Ready for whatever comes next.

If these past two years have taught me anything, it’s that growth rarely happens when life stays comfortable. Sometimes the biggest lessons are waiting just beyond what feels familiar.

So if there’s one thing I hope you take away from reading this, it’s this:

Explore.

It doesn’t have to mean driving across continents or spending years on the road.

Sometimes exploration is as simple as taking a different path, visiting a place you’ve never been, or saying yes to an opportunity that scares you a little.

Step outside your version of “normal.”

Go off the beaten path every now and then.

You never know what you’ll find, who you’ll meet,

Or who you’ll become.