The things you get to keep
lessons from a journey that ended too soon
Life is too short to stay in one place.
It’s probably been said a million times, but I found myself realizing it all over again today.
I spent 3 months in Barcelona, a city that was once just a place on the map to me.
Now, its streets are filled with memories made with new friends, favorite spots, and corners that are yet to be discovered.
Looking through my photo album today confirmed what I already knew deep down: I’m not the same person who stepped onto the plane that took me to Barcelona back in March.
That’s the magic of going places.
They challenge you, sometimes enough to shake you to your core. But once the dust settles, you realize you love the new version of yourself even more. At least, this was my experience.
I’m truly sad that my journey was disrupted and cut short. But even if I knew everything would turn out this way, I’d still step on that plane.
I know there were people I was meant to meet and things I was meant to experience.
(June 18, 2026 - Somewhere above the Balearic Sea)
A month later, I read those words again. I wrote this on my Notes app at approximately 30,000 feet, on the plane ride from Barcelona back to Istanbul. And it’s such a “me” move to write a reflection on my previous reflection. I don’t even question it anymore.
A few months ago, I packed my life up and temporarily moved to a city that I had never been to before, but one that had been calling my name.
What was supposed to be a six-month stay in Barcelona was cut short by bureaucratic complications, and I found myself on my way home only halfway through my journey.
What made leaving especially painful was that I had just found my rhythm in the city. I’d secured my apartment, made a few friends, started swimming, and finally stopped feeling like I was surviving.
The flight back to Istanbul was the hardest flight I’ve ever taken. I didn’t cry or anything. I just felt the weight in my chest. I wasn’t ready to go back. How could I be?
At some point during the flight, I opened my Notes app and started typing without really thinking.
It was only after writing those words that I began to calm down. It was like taking a step back and seeing clearly from a different perspective: just because my journey was cut short doesn’t mean it didn’t happen at all. It doesn’t mean I have to give back the joy, the tears, the growth, or the wisdom. I get to keep them. I also get to keep the wonderful people I met and the memories I made. (Apparently, I also get to keep the few pounds I gained thanks to all the tapas).
I guess I had convinced myself that because the story didn’t end the way I’d imagined, it became less real. Less valid. But endings don’t get to rewrite everything that came before them.
I wonder if we do this more often than we realize. We measure experiences based on the endings we hoped for instead of seeing them for what they were. A chapter of your life doesn’t lose its value because it ended sooner than expected. Things rarely go exactly according to plan anyway. Life has a way of interfering. But that doesn’t erase what came before.
What’s even better than this new perspective is that I get to go back hopefully, fingers crossed. This might be a trauma response, but even after booking my flight to Barcelona mid-September, I don’t want to sound too certain.
I’m just hopeful, and doing everything I can to go back and continue my journey. The rest is out of my hands.
And whether I make it back in September or not, there’s one thing that has already changed. I no longer believe that a story interrupted is a meaningless one.