When I was in my twenties, I had $500 in my pocket, a terrible perm, zero connections—and I moved across the world to Asia.
I didn’t have a plan.
I didn’t have a safety net.
I just had this quiet, relentless urge to figure out what this thing called life was all about—and I didn’t care how I got there.
A few weeks of exploring (and technically job hunting) later, I landed in Chiayi, Taiwan.
It was a small, vibrant city tucked between mountains and water, dotted with temples and monasteries—and, oddly enough, a Carrefour and Starbucks. It felt both foreign and familiar in the strangest, most beautiful way.
I didn’t speak the language. I didn’t understand the culture.
Which meant everything became an adventure.
✔️Going to the meat market was an adventure.
✔️Driving my Vespa was an adventure.
✔️Trying to feed every stray dog on the island was an adventure.
And somewhere in the middle of that life—between new friendships, miscommunications, and moments that stretched me in ways I didn’t yet understand—something quietly took root.
A coworker told me about the Camino de Santiago.
I can’t remember if it was her story or someone else’s.
I can’t remember the details.
But I remember how it felt. I remember my curiosity.
Like a seed being planted—deep, certain, and alive.
That little bugger has tugged at my heart ever since.
It wove itself into me.
Rooted itself in places I couldn’t see.
Showed up in quiet moments… and in the loud ones too.
Sometimes I’d forget about it for months—years, even.
But when it called, it didn’t whisper.
It shook me.
Mind. Body. Soul.
Two decades later, I finally decided to listen.
I’m glad you’re here — until next time.
XO
Chasing Dreams 