I was supposed to be teaching English in a school in Brazil this summer. I was supposed to live in a house by the beach and learn how to speak Portuguese. I was supposed to explore the Amazon Rainforest and sleep under the stars.  For very  reasons, my volunteering trip is not happening anymore.

For a little while, I was obsessed with knowing when I would be able to feel that amazing way I do when I hop on a plane again. I was convinced that I needed to have a one-way ticket booked to feel like a fulfilled human being. I kept glancing at my brand new traveling backpack, wishing on the day I would get to pack it again. I read through my old travel books and journals, hoping for a miracle. Mostly a vaccine. After weeks of dreaming about beaches and picnicking on top of mountains in Europe, I finally came back to my senses: the day I’ll be hopping on a plane again is far.

And it is okay. Being stuck in my hometown made me rethink the way I see traveling.

I always claim that I love traveling, that I want to continuously try new things, discover new cultures, and go on adventures. I thought it meant seeing as many countries as possible and going as far as I could. But maybe I was wrong.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the definition of traveling is: “going to different places instead of staying in one place”.

To me, this means that traveling can be almost anything.

You are traveling when you visit your friend’s college town for the weekend. You are traveling on your Sunday morning walk. You are traveling on your way to work. You are traveling when you walk by the river near your house, even though you have seen it a million times.