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Called to Go: Following the Mapmaker’s Call, One Step at a Time

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  • History Beneath My Feet — The Acropolis Museum

    I started the day the right way: with a delicious breakfast of stafidopsoma — soft, hearty raisin bread rolls, similar to bagels — and a cup of Greek coffee. ☕
    The coffee surprised me in the best way: larger than Italian espresso, smooth, and to-go, which made it perfect for the walk ahead. Fueled, caffeinated, and curious, I set off toward the Acropolis Museum.

    Arriving at the Acropolis Museum

    Even before stepping inside, the museum makes its intentions clear. As you walk up, you can look straight down through glass floors at ancient ruins beneath the building itself — history literally layered under your feet. You’ll get a closer look later, but that first glimpse alone is enough to stop you in your tracks.

    From the museum grounds, I also saw the Acropolis itself for the very first time in person.
    And honestly?
    Wow.

    I couldn’t help but wonder: Who had stood here before me, looking up at that same hill? What were their lives like? Were we similar in ways I’ll never know?

    I had purchased my ticket in advance (highly recommend — it lets you skip the line), so I walked straight inside.

    First Impressions Inside

    The entrance opens into a wide, airy hall, with artifacts lining both sides and grand stairs rising at the far end. I didn’t really know where to begin — so I followed instinct.

    The first section that caught my attention featured artifacts from the Sanctuary of the Nymph, located on the southern slope of the Acropolis.

    The Sanctuary of the Nymph — Marriage & Ritual

    The signage explained that in antiquity, the slopes of the Acropolis served as a transitional zone between the city and its most sacred spaces — a place where myths and daily life intertwined.

    Near the major sanctuaries of Dionysos and Asklepios was a small open-air sanctuary dedicated to the Nymph of marriage and wedding ceremonies. Here, Athenians left offerings such as loutrophoroi — vessels used for the nuptial bath — along with perfume containers, cosmetics, jewelry, figurines, and ritual objects.

    What struck me most was the explanation of marriage in ancient Athens:

    Marriage wasn’t about romance. Its purpose was to ensure legitimate offspring. Girls were often married young to much older men chosen by their guardians. Weddings followed a strict ritual calendar, lasting three days and culminating in public and private ceremonies.

    Looking at the objects — items tied to preparation, ceremony, and expectation — I felt the weight of how structured life once was, especially for women. These weren’t just artifacts; they were echoes of lived experience.

    Across the Hall: The Sanctuary of Asklepios — Healing & Hope

    Directly opposite were artifacts from the Sanctuary of Asklepios, the god of medicine and healing.

    His symbols — the snake and staff — are still used today in modern medicine, which felt surreal to realize. Ancient belief still shaping contemporary life.

    The Athenian Asklepieion was founded in 420/419 BCE and functioned as a healing center. Patients would wait in porticoes, hoping to be healed through dream visions of the god. Many of the offerings displayed were depictions of healed body parts — tangible expressions of gratitude and faith.

    Later, in the 6th century AD, a Christian basilica dedicated to the “healing saints” was built directly on the site — another layer added, not erased.

    Small Sanctuaries, Many Beliefs

    The museum also explored the smaller sanctuaries scattered across the slopes of the Acropolis, where gods, heroes, and nymphs were worshiped in caves and open-air spaces.

    Aphrodite appeared here in multiple forms — as protector of marriage, unions, and the people themselves. Faith wasn’t centralized; it was woven into daily life, into movement, into space.

    The Sanctuary of Dionysos — Birthplace of Drama

    One of the most fascinating sections focused on Dionysos, god of wine, vegetation, and ecstatic celebration.

    His sanctuary on the southern slope became the birthplace of theater itself. Festivals held here eventually led to dramatic competitions — and the first performances of plays by Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes.

    Standing there, realizing that Western drama began as a form of worship, celebration, and storytelling — it felt like watching the roots of art reach up through time.

    Leaving the First Galleries

    By the time I reached the end of these initial sections, I already knew this museum wasn’t something to rush.

    This wasn’t just a collection of objects.
    It was belief layered on belief, ritual built upon ritual, faith evolving without disappearing.

    And I had only just begun.

    Upstairs: The Acropolis: A Living Timeline of Athens

    Many sections here photography was not allowed, so I sadly don’t have a ton of photos here.

    1. The Acropolis at the Beginning of Its Story

    The Acropolis was never just a monument — it was chosen early on as a place of life.

    Long before marble temples crowned its summit, the rocky hill at the heart of Athens offered what early settlers needed most: natural springs, defensive height, and open land. From the Neolithic period through the Bronze Age, the Acropolis served as a place of habitation, protection, and worship.

    By the Mycenaean period (around the 2nd millennium BC), it had become a fortified citadel — surrounded by massive “Cyclopean” walls so enormous later generations believed giants must have built them. Within these walls lived rulers, nobles, and worshippers who honored Athena as their protector long before her city bore her name.

    The Acropolis was already sacred — not because it was beautiful yet, but because it was essential

    2. From Sacred Hill to Religious Center

    As Athens grew from scattered communities into a unified city, the Acropolis became its spiritual heart.

    Small sanctuaries dotted its slopes, dedicated to gods, heroes, and nymphs — especially Athena, Pan, Aphrodite, Dionysos, and Asklepios. These open-air sanctuaries blurred the line between daily life and divine presence. Faith wasn’t set apart from the city; it was woven into it.

    Marriage rituals, healing practices, festivals, and civic identity all passed through these sacred spaces. The Acropolis became the meeting point between myth and human life — where gods were honored and people brought their fears, hopes, and gratitude.

    3. The Archaic Acropolis & the Birth of Democracy

    Between the 7th and early 5th centuries BC, Athens transformed.

    This era saw the rise and fall of tyrants, social upheaval and reform, and the groundwork for democracy.

    Reformers like Solon and later Cleisthenes reshaped Athenian society, expanding political participation and limiting aristocratic control. During this time, the Acropolis took on a monumental character — no longer just sacred, but symbolic of the city’s evolving identity.

    Temples, statues, and offerings filled the summit, celebrating Athena not only as a goddess, but as a symbol of civic unity and power.

    4. Destruction & Defiance: The Persian Wars

    In 480 BC, everything burned.

    The Persians invaded Athens, looting and destroying the Acropolis, tearing down temples, and setting sacred spaces on fire. Statues were smashed and buried in pits — not discarded, but intentionally preserved beneath the rubble.

    What followed is one of the most powerful moments in Athenian history: the choice not to erase the scars.

    For decades, Athenians left the ruins visible as a memorial — a reminder of loss, resilience, and survival. Victory at Salamis renewed their confidence, but they remembered the cost.

    5. Classical Athens & the Acropolis Reborn

    Under Pericles in the mid-5th century BC, Athens reached its height.

    The Acropolis was rebuilt — not simply restored, but transformed into a statement of cultural, political, and artistic supremacy: the Parthenon, the Erechtheion, the Temple of Athena Nike

    These buildings reflected: Democratic ideals, Imperial confidence, artistic perfection

    The sculptures of the Parthenon told stories of gods and mortals, victories and festivals, portraying Athens as the center of order against chaos. The Acropolis became a declaration: this is who we are.

    6. War, Change, and Endurance

    Athens’ power did not last forever.

    The Peloponnesian War weakened the city. Macedonian rule followed. Rome later absorbed Athens into its empire — yet, unlike many cities, Athens was spared destruction. The Romans revered its intellectual and artistic legacy, preserving and restoring monuments rather than replacing them.

    Over centuries: pagan temples became Christian churches; the Acropolis became a fortress; statues were repurposed or buried; faith changed, but sacredness remained

    Even through Byzantine, Ottoman, and modern eras, the Acropolis endured — reshaped but never erased.

    7. Why the Acropolis Still Matters

    The Acropolis is not frozen in time.

    It is a place where: empires rose and fell, faith shifted forms, democracy was imagined, art reached for the divine, destruction was met with rebuilding

    Every stone carries the weight of belief — belief in gods, in people, in ideas larger than any one life.

    Beneath the Museum: Homes of Ancient Athens

    Next, I wandered into the section where the museum opens directly onto the ancient homes built beneath it. Standing there, I wasn’t looking at ruins behind glass — I was looking into lives.

    These houses date back to the end of the 4th century AD, a time of residential prosperity for both the neighborhood and Athens as a whole. They weren’t lavish or extravagant, but they were spacious, thoughtfully designed homes belonging to middle-class Athenians — families who lived full, ordinary lives in a city shaped by extraordinary history. Built atop the remains of even older dwellings, these homes evolved layer by layer, remaining in use until the early 6th century AD.

    As I leaned closer, details began to emerge: entryways worn smooth by countless footsteps, quiet courtyards that once held conversation and laughter, wells that supplied fresh water, and carefully laid pipelines guiding water to latrines and bathing areas. It was infrastructure meant not for spectacle, but for living — for cooking meals, raising children, washing hands, and beginning and ending days.

    Standing there, I couldn’t help but wonder about the people who moved through these spaces. Who waited in these doorways? Who gathered in these courtyards at the end of a long day? What worries did they carry, what hopes did they whisper, what prayers rose quietly with the steam of warm water?

    This section felt especially grounding. Empires rise and fall, temples dominate skylines — but it’s in places like these that life truly happens. Seeing these homes reminded me that ancient Athens was not only shaped by philosophers and warriors, but by ordinary people living faithfully within the rhythms of their days.

    And for a moment, time felt thinner — as if their lives weren’t so distant from ours after all.

    Why This Museum Matters: Setting the Stage Before the Stones

    Before temples.
    Before ruins.
    Before postcard views.

    This museum explains why Athens became what it is.

    Before stepping onto the Acropolis itself, I’m so grateful I began here. The museum doesn’t just display fragments of the past — it teaches you how to see in layers. It reveals how lives were built on top of other lives, how homes rose over older foundations, how faith, routine, devastation, and renewal all shared the same ground.

    It sets teh stage.
    It gives context.
    It reminds you that history is layered — not erased.

    Understanding those layers changed everything for me. The Acropolis stopped being a distant monument and became a living narrative — not just of gods and glory, but of ordinary people navigating daily life, rebuilding after loss, and continuing forward even when the ground beneath them carried stories far older than they could imagine.

    Walking through the museum felt deeply familiar. Not because I’d been there before, but because I’ve lived a layered life too — built upon seasons, rebuilt after loss, strengthened through time. It reminded me that becoming works the same way. We don’t begin on blank ground. We walk paths shaped by what came before — lessons, wounds, faith, choices, love, loss — all layered beneath our feet.

    And maybe that’s why starting here matters. When you understand the layers, you stop rushing toward the monument and start honoring the foundation. Growth doesn’t come from erasing what’s beneath us, but from learning how to walk it with awareness.

    By the time I left the museum, I realized I wasn’t just preparing to see ancient ruins — I was being invited to honor the layered paths in my own life. To move forward not by rushing past the past, but by understanding it. When you know the story beneath your feet, every step carries meaning. And what comes next isn’t just something you see — it’s something you enter, already becoming.

    Some foundations are worth revisiting — not because they failed, but because they were strong enough to be built on again.

  • A Birthday Gift to Myself: An Airport Experience That Didn’t Require Cardio

    What would you do if you found out your school break just happened to fall over your birthday?

    Two weeks before, I decided I was taking myself to Greece. 🇬🇷✨

    There wasn’t much of an itinerary for this first day — and honestly, that felt perfect. This was a travel day. A soft landing. A quiet beginning to something I’d been looking forward to experiencing. 

    ✈️ Milan to Athens

    Traveling from Milan to Athens turned out to be the easiest, least stressful airport experience I’ve had in a long time. From stepping off the train to walking into the terminal, checking in, getting my boarding pass, and gliding through security — no rushing, no yelling, no chaos. Just calm efficiency.

    It was… glorious.

    I flew out as evening settled in, and as the plane lifted off, Milan disappeared beneath a sky painted in deep reds and pinks. There’s an old sailor’s saying about red skies at night — sailor’s delight — and watching that sunset from above the clouds felt like a good omen for what was ahead.

    🌊 First Glimpses of Greece

    Flying into Athens at night was its own kind of magic. From my window seat, I could see the coastline traced in golden lights, boats scattered across the dark water like constellations below. It felt surreal — like I was watching the city slowly reveal itself, one glowing outline at a time.

    Touching down, I felt that familiar mix of excitement and focus: Okay. New country. New systems. Let’s figure this out.

    🚆 Navigating a New City

    The all-too-familiar task of navigating public transportation in a new country began almost immediately — but thankfully, my hostel had already sent clear instructions and tips via messages. I hopped on the train, rode it to the nearest stop, and found myself just about 80 meters from where I’d be staying.

    The hostel staff were incredibly helpful — communicative, kind, and thoughtful in all the ways that make solo travel feel less daunting. The only downside was that it wasn’t as walkable to major sights as my Scotland hostel had been — but with the train so close, it more than made up for it.

    🍽️ Dinner by Instinct

    By the time I arrived, hunger had fully set in. I followed my nose across the street and stumbled into what turned out to be the most delicious souvlaki imaginable. I also ordered grilled feta topped with honey and sesame seeds — salty, sweet, rich, and utterly addictive.

    It was the kind of meal that makes you pause after the first bite and think, Oh. Yes. This was the right choice.

    (Also: it made me drink a lot of water… and contemplate ordering more honey.)

    And the best part? The entire meal — souvlaki, grilled feta with honey and sesame seeds, and all — cost less than the price of a coffee and pastry in some cities.

    🌙 A Quiet End to Day One

    It was late, and I knew there was nothing else I needed from the night. I headed back to the hostel, took a long shower, and climbed into bed — tired, full, and quietly content.

    Athens would wait until morning.

    Day one didn’t need to be loud or packed with sights. It was enough to arrive, to eat well, and to rest — knowing that tomorrow, a city layered with history, stories, and sunshine would be ready for me.

    Red sky at night…sailors take delight
    Souvlaki
    Grilled feta with honey and sesame seed topping.
    Matched the wall in my hostel lobby when I arrived.

  • Stones That Remember, Hope Still Holds On

    There are cities you visit — and then there are cities you feel. 

    Cremona was the latter.

    We came for a day, traveling with my host family to visit relatives, but almost immediately I realized I was standing in a place where centuries don’t just exist in museums — they live beneath your feet. Walking through Cremona felt like stepping into a living timeline. The streets were quiet but not empty, old but not forgotten. Sunlight spilled across worn stone and shuttered windows, and every turn seemed to invite me to slow down just a little more. I traced doorways with my eyes, paused in courtyards, and let myself imagine the countless lives that had passed through these same spaces long before mine.

    As I wandered, I kept thinking about how many footsteps had echoed here before me — soldiers, merchants, craftsmen, families — people who had no idea their daily errands would one day become history. Cremona doesn’t just feel old in the way buildings age; it feels ancient in the way stories linger. And the more I noticed, the more I realized just how deep its roots truly run.

    A Brief Step Back in Time

    Long before cafés lined the streets and balconies overflowed with flowers, Cremona stood at the crossroads of empire. Founded as a Roman colony in 218 BCE, the city rose during the height of Rome’s expansion, strategically placed near the Po River — a vital artery for trade, movement, and power. The very streets I walked that day follow the same general paths once laid by Roman planners, their stones shaped by soldiers, merchants, and citizens building what they believed would last forever.

    Over the centuries, Cremona grew and transformed — medieval towers rising where Roman foundations once stood, churches built atop earlier structures, doorways layered with the marks of time. Instead of erasing what came before, the city simply built on top of it. Roman foundations gave way to medieval ambition, which later embraced Renaissance beauty — all coexisting, all visible, all breathing together.

    Standing there, it struck me how wild it was to realize that these streets had carried the weight of empires, faith, trade, war, art, and ordinary lives — all stacked gently on top of one another like pages in a very old book.

    A City That Whispers

    Cremona doesn’t shout its history. It whispers it.

    That layering was everywhere — in churches where stone steps dipped softly under centuries of devotion; in heavy wooden doors scarred by time, paint faded into olive greens and deep browns, hinges still holding; in quiet courtyards where the silence felt intentional, as if the city knew when to pause.

    Sacred spaces didn’t feel separated from daily life — they were woven into it. Churches rose not as monuments demanding attention, but as places that had always been there, steady and faithful. Standing before their facades, I felt that familiar tug I’ve come to recognize on this journey — the reminder that faith, like architecture, is built over time. Worn. Repaired. Strengthened. Never rushed.

    I found myself slowing down without trying. Cremona invites reverence.

    Walking Between Past & Present

    Being there with my host family made the day even more meaningful. This wasn’t tourism for the sake of seeing — it was connection. Family stories layered onto historical ones. Shared meals and shared laughter echoing in a city that understands continuity better than most.

    Cremona reminded me that history isn’t distant. It’s relational.
    It lives in families. In traditions. In the choice to remember where you come from while still moving forward.

    Knowing all of this, it felt impossible to rush. Every doorway felt like an invitation. Every church façade, every weathered stone, seemed to hum with memory. I walked more slowly then — not out of reverence alone, but out of gratitude — aware that I was moving through a place that had been becoming for thousands of years, just as I was.

    Faith in the Layers

    Walking those ancient streets, I couldn’t help but think about how God works in layers — how nothing is ever wasted, and how every season builds quietly upon the one before it. Just as Cremona was shaped by centuries of footsteps, prayers, failures, and faith, I realized my own life had been formed the same way. What once felt like detours or delays were, in truth, foundations being laid beneath me. God had been steady and present in every unseen moment, shaping me long before I understood what He was preparing.

    Standing there, surrounded by history that had endured far longer than any single story, I felt a quiet reassurance settle in my heart: becoming takes time, and when God is the architect, every layer has purpose.

    And sometimes, faith looks like allowing yourself to walk old roads again — not because you are clinging to what was, but because you trust that God can still gently breathe hope into places that appear finished to human eyes. Old paths do not mean finished stories. They mean there is history worth honoring, lessons worth carrying forward, and a quiet belief that God is still at work in what hasn’t finished becoming.

    What Cremona Gave Me

    I left Cremona with a full heart, and a renewed sense of perspective. Walking where Romans once walked didn’t make me feel small — it made me feel placed. Part of something ongoing. A reminder that our lives, too, are bricks in a much larger story — laid carefully, imperfectly, but with purpose.

    Some cities impress you.
    Others teach you.

    Cremona did both — quietly, faithfully, and without ever asking for applause.

  • No Map, Just Magic: Wandering Busto Arsizio & What a Month(ish) Here Has Taught Me

    There are days when you step outside and the world feels just right — soft light, crisp air, and a quiet invitation to simply be. That’s what the day felt like when I decided to wander Busto Arsizio with no map, no schedule, and no intention except to let my feet choose the way. I tucked my phone away, took a deep breath, and let the autumn breeze guide me.

    🍂 A City Walk with No Destination

    The morning air held that perfect Italian fall balance — cool enough to feel cozy, warm enough not to rush. Golden leaves skittered across old stone streets as I meandered with no plan at all. Busto has a way of surprising you when you slow down: ivy crawling up pale buildings, tiny balconies overflowing with flowers, children laughing in the piazzas as pigeons scatter around them.

    Church bells chimed every so often, echoing off the narrow streets in a melody that made the city feel older, wiser, and incredibly alive. I passed stone archways, quiet courtyards, and historic facades that seemed to whisper, “You’re not lost. You’re exactly where you need to be.”

    🍨 The Pistachio Gelato Pause

    At some point — because it’s Italy, after all — gelato became absolutely necessary. I ducked into a little gelateria and ordered pistachio, because when in doubt, choose the flavor Italians themselves swear by.

    One bite in and I swear the world slowed down. Creamy, cool, rich with real pistachio — not the fake bright green stuff from grocery store freezers. I sat outside as people strolled past, savoring gelato and sunshine, letting myself feel completely present. It was a small moment, but small moments matter here. They soften you. They ground you. They make life feel delicious again.

    🏫 A Month in Busto: Things I’ve Learned

    Wandering the streets reminded me how much I’ve absorbed in my first month here — the rhythms, the quirks, the beauty that reveals itself only when you live somewhere, not just visit.

    👟 On Schools & Students

    Italian students are endlessly fascinating. They have this mix of teenage chaos and unexpected maturity. Fashion? Impeccable. Even the ones claiming they “rolled out of bed” look runway-ready compared to American teens.

    They greet me with “Ciao, prof!” in the halls, and their friendliness is genuine. They’re curious — about English, about American life, about me. They speak with their hands, their whole bodies, their whole hearts. And while they can be energetic (and let’s be honest, sometimes loud), they’re respectful and warm in ways that surprise me at least once a day.

    School life here is structured but somehow relaxed. Bells ring, students move in waves, and there’s a kind of rhythm to it — like the school itself breathes with them.

    🍝 On Food & Daily Life

    Everything here revolves around food… but not in a rushed, “grab something and go” way. Food is meant to be enjoyed.

    Pastries are flaky and buttery, cappuccinos are always better than you expect, and grocery stores? They’re full of fresh produce that actually tastes like something. People take their meals seriously, savoring each bite like it deserves attention — because it does.

    And the lifestyle? It’s slower. Softer. People walk places. They talk in piazzas. They take Sunday rest seriously. Life isn’t a race — it’s a conversation.

    🌇 Fall Light, Golden Leaves, and Quiet Lessons

    As I wandered through the city, gelato cup empty and heart happy, I realized how deeply this place has begun to settle into me. Not with loud moments or big revelations — but through gentle, ordinary beauty.

    The way the leaves gathered around the steps of old buildings. The way older couples stroll arm in arm even on ordinary Tuesdays. The way the air smells after it rains — like stone, earth, and something sweet I can’t quite name.

    Moving abroad has been humbling. Stretching. Holy in the quietest ways. And as I walked those winding streets with no destination, I felt a deep sense of recognition:

    This is where I’m supposed to be right now.
     Learning. Becoming. Trusting.
    One unhurried day at a time.

    ✨ A Final Reflection

    Wandering Busto Arsizio reminded me of something simple but profound — sometimes the best way to learn a place is to stop trying to understand it and just let it reveal itself to you.

    No map. No agenda.
    Just me, the sound of church bells, pistachio gelato, and the slow unfolding of a new life in a new city.

    I don’t know every street here yet.
    I don’t speak the language perfectly. FAR from it.
    But I’m here — walking, noticing, growing — and somehow, that’s enough.

    Maybe that’s the quiet magic of this season: the chance to discover not just where I am, but who I’m becoming within it. 🍂✨

    I often stop here before or after the gym. So peaceful inside the middle of the city.
    View from the room I sleep in.
    Here the lids don’t come all the way off-great to not lose…but I’m not always sure how to drink and not shove that up my nose!

    Random assortment of the foods I’ve made or tried.

    You tell me…are there teenagers in this house?
    A gathering of the Nonno’s in the piazza.
    Working on my coffee art

  • November 20th: Wings He Rebuilt From Ashes

    There are dates that etch themselves into the soul—not because time demands it, but because life does. Dates that return each year like a tide—steeped in memory, thick with echoes—carrying reminders of the moments when life cracked open in ways we never saw coming.

    For me, November 20th holds the imprint of worlds that shifted beneath my feet. Seasons of unexpected breaking. Chapters where everything familiar suddenly felt fragile. It’s a day layered with grief and courage, endings and awakenings, unraveling and the quiet, painful becoming that only comes when the ground gives way beneath you and you meet rock bottom.

    But this year… this year feels different.

    Somewhere between Novembers, something inside me refused to stay buried. Something ancient and fierce. Something that knows what it means to burn and still rise.
    A spark that refused extinction. A flicker of wings forming even in the smoke.

    The part that understands fire not as a destroyer, but as a refiner.

    I’ve learned that we don’t rise after the ashes settle—we rise while they’re still falling. We rise when our knees shake, when our breath trembles, when the night feels too long and the heart feels too tender. We rise not because we are unbroken, but because something inside us whispers, “Not yet. There is more.”

    So this November 20th isn’t a memorial of what shattered—
    it’s a testament to what survived.
    A marker of who I’m choosing to become.
    To what is being rebuilt in me.

    A reminder that I survived the fire because of HIM.
    A reminder that I can step into the beauty, strength, and softness I had once hid away—
    a reminder that even scorched wings can learn to lift again.
    To be the woman who learned to rise while the embers were still warm.

    And maybe… in the quiet places of hope, in the spaces where God writes the endings we can’t yet see… some things are not destroyed by fire at all.
    Some things are refined and pruned by it.
    Some things wait—like embers—ready for breath to bring them back to life in ways only He knows, when He determines the season is right.
    Because the Author doesn’t stop writing just because the chapter breaks. He holds the pen steady, even through smoke, writing love stories that outlive the flames.

    I don’t know what the next chapter will hold.
    But I know this:
    I am still here.
    I am still rising.
    I am still healing.
    Still becoming the woman the fire couldn’t take.I carry the light of every flame that tried to undo me—
    a phoenix glow God Himself rekindled.
    One faithful step, one day at a time.

  • Grace Between Flights: Where God Still Writes the Journey

    💬 Intro: Every fairytale must end — but not all endings close the book. Some simply turn the page. As I packed my bags and said goodbye to Scotland, I realized the journey was never really about the castles or the cobblestones. It was about grace — the kind that travels with you, whispering that the Author of your story is still at work, even when you’re somewhere between flights. 🌤️📜

    ☀️ A Final Morning in Scotland

    After waking up, packing my last few belongings, and stepping outside one final morning, I was greeted by soft clouds scattered across a pale, baby-blue sky, with the fortress of Edinburgh Castle rising proudly into view. 🏰 It felt like the city itself was offering a quiet farewell — majestic, calm, and beautifully still.

    I had left with plenty of time to wander the streets one last time before catching the bus to the airport and heading through security. Once there, I grabbed a quick (and delicious) breakfast sandwich and coffee from Costa Coffee — highly recommended! ☕🥪 The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the hum of gentle conversation, creating the kind of quiet, contented, unhurried morning that felt like a soft goodbye.

    Little did I know, my calm Scottish send-off was about to turn into Airport Adventures: The Sequel. ✈️

    ✈️ Airport Adventures: The Sequel Nobody Asked For

    Belly full and spirits high, I wandered over to my gate, opened my Kindle, and settled in to wait for boarding to begin. My phone buzzed with updates — a small ten-minute delay, groups beginning to board — all perfectly matching the announcements over the loudspeaker. Everything was smooth, organized, and calm.

    When my group was called, I stood, collected my things, and walked confidently toward the gate. The attendant scanned my ticket — and the screen flashed red. Hmm. We tried again. Red. She looked down at my ticket, then back up at me with the kind of calm politeness that always means something’s wrong.
     “This is the flight to Frankfurt,” she said gently.
    I blinked. “Right… except I’m supposed to be going to Brussels.”

    Cue the plot twist. 🎬

    My flight was, in fact, not in the same area. Oh no. That would’ve been far too easy.

    And just like that, the calm, peaceful morning had turned into the all too familiar airport rush. I grabbed my bag, double-checked my ticket (three times, for good measure), and started power-walking across the terminal like I was auditioning for a travel montage.

    My phone buzzed again — my actual flight was now boarding… somewhere else in the airport.
    Of course it was.

    I started moving fast, weaving through travelers like I was training for an Olympic event. Somewhere between gates I laughed out loud — every airport seems determined to remind me that cardio isn’t optional. Who needs a gym membership when international terminals keep testing my endurance between boarding calls? Thankfully, it wasn’t quite as dramatic this time. No desperate final calls or heart-pounding finishes — just me, long legs and rolling suitcase in sync, power-walking like a woman on a mission (and mildly caffeinated courage).

    Walking up to the plane, I paused for one last look — the hills in the distance, the clouds rolling low, the kind of light that only exists in Scotland. I drew in a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs, memorizing the scent of rain, history, and adventure. This was it — my final breath of Scottish air before returning to the skies.

    🥐 Transit Tales

    Once I arrived in Brussels, I had just enough time to use the restroom, grab a snack, and make my way (correctly!) to my next gate. Don’t worry — I checked every departure board along the way and triple-checked my boarding pass this time. 😅 Lesson learned! The connection from Brussels to Milan went smoothly — quick, calm, and blessedly free of cardio. Layover officially conquered. ✈️🥐

    💭 Reflections Above the Clouds

    As the plane climbed higher, thoughts of Scotland stretched behind me — a patchwork of memory and story, stitched together with rain and sunlight. Each moment I carried with me like a thread of grace: the laughter of strangers, the echo of footsteps on cobblestones, the scent of warm pastries and earth after rain, the wind whispering through castle ruins. None of it felt random. Every breath, every detour, every gust of wind felt divinely placed — the gentle artistry of a Creator reminding me that He had been writing beside me all along.

    Somewhere between Edinburgh’s misty mornings and the quiet hum of the engines, I realized this journey had never truly been about travel. It was about remembrance — a gentle rediscovering of the woman God created me to be before the world told me who I should become. In every sunrise and storm, in every pause and detour, He had been there — shaping, refining, softening, and strengthening me in ways I didn’t yet understand.

    Outside my window, the clouds glowed with a holy kind of light — soft, endless, and alive with promise. I saw His fingerprints in everything — in the strangers who offered kindness, in the wind that seemed to dance with purpose, in the laughter that healed something I hadn’t known was broken. Looking out at the glowing horizon, I felt the still, certain truth that I was never walking alone. Every step through that land of stone and story had been guided by the One who writes the greatest tales of all.

    Maybe that’s what adventure truly is: not the escape from real life, but the reminder of how beautiful it can be when you choose to live it fully.
    I learned to laugh through chaos, and find wonder even when plans fell apart — because grace was there too, quietly holding everything together.

    Scotland had given me stories, but more than that, it had reminded me how to believe in them again — and in myself.

    Travel, I realized, isn’t just about discovering the world — it’s about rediscovering the One who made it, and the purpose He breathed into you long before you began to chase it; to see the beauty of the life He’s still unfolding within you. 🌍🙏

    As the horizon blurred into gold, I smiled — a quiet, grateful smile that carried the weight of wonder. The story wasn’t ending here; it was only turning the page. God was still writing, and I was still becoming — one prayer, one breath, one beautiful, unfolding chapter at a time. 📖💫

    One final castle pic!
    My delicious breakfast sandwich
    Until next time Scotland!

  • And She Became: A Fairytale Written in Scars and Strength

    Intro

    Some stories are read. Others are lived. And then there are the rare few that write themselves into your soul — one gust of wind, one crumbling stone wall, one barefoot step at a time. What began as a photoshoot in a gown with a sword became something far deeper: a reckoning, a reclamation, and a chapter of becoming written against the timeless backdrop of Scotland’s hills and castles. 

    This was never just about a dress, a camera, or a castle. It was about stepping into every version of myself I had ever been — the girl who once doubted her worth, the warrior who refused to yield, and the queen who finally learned she was worthy of the crown all along. Scotland wasn’t just the setting for this chapter. It was the page upon which I rewrote my story.

    🌧️ Once Upon a Scottish Morning

    Once upon a time, in a land far from home, she woke to a soft drizzle against her windowpane. The streets below were still wrapped in shadow, but the air felt alive — full of promise and a touch of magic. Today, she would gallivant through her kingdom…
    Alright, maybe not a real kingdom — but for one day, it was going to be mine. ✨

    🌅  A Fairytale Morning in Holyrood Park

    The fairytale began at Holyrood Park. The walk there earned me more than a few curious glances — apparently, not everyone expects to see a woman gliding down Princes Street in a flowing gown early on a Sunday morning! (“What, you’ve never seen a princess before coffee?” ☕ 😂) The stroll carried me past the royal residence itself, but my footsteps were leading me somewhere older, somewhere steeped in legend.

    ​​The first stop was a rocky hill — the kind that feels ancient, carved by time and stories long forgotten — with uneven surfaces and wild winds making balance a small adventure in itself. I kicked off my shoes and stepped barefoot onto the cool stone, the wind whipping through my hair with wild insistence. It wasn’t a gentle breeze; it was Scotland reminding me who was in charge. But we understood one another that morning — the wind became my unseen dance partner, sweeping fabric and hair into motion like a waltz at a Bridgerton ball. The moment the camera clicked, I felt as if I’d stepped not just into a storybook, but into a living painting — one where I wasn’t posing, but becoming. I stood there, emerald dress billowing like a banner, the weight of the sword grounding me as much as the earth beneath my feet. Every gust carried a kind of freedom, and for that fleeting moment, I was the story.

    From there, we hiked toward the ruins of St. Anthony’s Chapel. Perched on the hillside, its weathered stones stood as a quiet reminder of medieval faith and time’s steady march through the centuries. I let the cool earth and uneven stone press against my feet, grounding me as I wandered through what was once a sacred place. The air was still — except for the wind howling dramatically through the ancient arches, as if cued just for us. From this height, the city stretched below, yet up here, surrounded by crumbling walls and echoes of forgotten footsteps, I felt worlds away.

    At one point, I paused in a crumbling window frame, gazing out over the same sweeping view that countless others must have seen long before me. I couldn’t help but wonder who they were — monks, nobles, pilgrims — and what they might have felt standing there: hope, longing, faith, or perhaps the same quiet awe that filled me. That single moment, framed by ancient stone and endless sky, made me feel deeply connected to the many lives that had passed through this place before mine — as if time itself had stopped to let me listen.

    With that reflection still lingering, we left the chapel’s echoing stones behind. I slipped my shoes back on for the walk ahead, ready to trade ancient stone for sweeping green as we made our way toward the windswept grassy valley.

    By the time we arrived, the mist had lifted, leaving behind a soft golden glow that wrapped the hills in quiet enchantment. The wind was still wild — no longer just a breeze but a mischievous spirit — tugging at my dress and hair as if determined to sweep me into its game.I shed my shoes once more, feeling the cool, damp earth beneath my feet as I twirled and frolicked across the landscape, the hem of my dress swirling like something out of a period drama. The light caught on the folds of emerald fabric as I moved — free, weightless, and entirely lost in the moment. It was one of those rare mornings when time felt suspended, when the world hushed just long enough for you to feel not just like the main character, but woven into the story itself — a living, breathing part of Scotland’s timeless landscape, carried along by the wind’s playful rhythm.

    As the final clicks of the camera echoed across the valley, a hush seemed to settle over the landscape — as if the land itself knew this chapter was coming to a close. I slipped my shoes back on, brushing the grass from my dress, and took one last lingering look at the hills. The fairytale feeling hadn’t faded; if anything, it was growing stronger, tugging me forward toward the next adventure. And what better next chapter than a castle? 🏰✨

    🌹Once a Warrior, Now a Queen: A Coronation of Becoming 
    As we drove toward the castle, my thoughts wandered far beyond the day’s fairytale setting. They drifted back to hospital rooms and long, dark nights — to the chapters of my life where I had to fight in new ways, on unfamiliar battlefields. Many people suggested I do a photoshoot to celebrate “surviving” cancer. But I never felt drawn to that word. Survivor felt too neat, too final — and it left no room for the warriors who fought just as fiercely but never got the chance to say they survived. I was, and always will be, a cancer warrior — not because the battle ended, but because it shaped who I am becoming every single day.

    Somewhere along that journey, I learned one of the most profound truths of my life: if I didn’t love the person looking back at me in the mirror, I could change. I wasn’t bound by who society said I should be or by the expectations of others. I could become — grow, evolve, and step into the version of myself I was created to be. Scars, imperfections, and all, I was not broken. I was becoming whole. My faith was the light that guided me through the darkest valleys, the steady hand that reminded me that transformation is holy work — not about erasing the past, but about rising from it.

    And somewhere along the way, I realized that becoming isn’t about perfection — it’s about embracing the fullness of who you are, even the parts that hurt. A rose doesn’t apologize for its thorns. They are part of its nature — sharp, sometimes painful, and often misunderstood — yet they exist alongside its beauty. The rose cannot choose to bloom without them, and yet those who truly see it do so in spite of the sting. I came to understand that I, too, was both thorn and bloom — strength and softness, pain and beauty, grief and grace — and that my worth was not diminished by the scars that told my story.

    And that is what this photoshoot was truly about. It wasn’t vanity or performance; it was a declaration. A promise to the girl who fought so hard to stay. It was a love letter to the woman she was still becoming. Each frame, each moment, wasn’t just a photograph — it was a reclaiming of my story. A chance to see myself not as a supporting character in someone else’s tale, but as the main character in my own: strong, deeply loved, perfectly imperfect, and boldly stepping into the next chapter of a story that is still unfolding.

    As the castle’s stone towers rose into view, something inside me shifted. This wasn’t just another stop on my journey — it was the living embodiment of everything I had fought for. Every thorn, every scar, every tear had led me here, to this moment. I felt the past and present converge inside me: warrior and woman, thorn and bloom, scar and strength. This wasn’t just a photoshoot — it was a coronation. A knighting of the warrior I had become. And as the gates loomed closer, I understood something deeply: I was no longer stepping into someone else’s story for me — I was writing my own, ready to step into a story that had been patiently waiting for me to believe I was its author (and the big man upstairs my editor/publisher). 🌹✨

    🏰 Through the Castle Gate: A Realm Awaits Its Queen
    The first step into Craigmillar Castle’s courtyard felt like stepping into another world — one woven from both history and imagination. We began near the great tree that anchors the heart of the inner ward, its leaves a deep, almost crimson red — a striking contrast against the pale grey pebbles underfoot and the cool stone walls that framed the space around us. It felt like a scene plucked straight from Game of Thrones — a weirwood tree standing in quiet watch, ancient and knowing, its branches whispering secrets of centuries past. The walls rose high and steady, scarred by time yet still unyielding, and for a moment, I half-expected a watchful steward or an old caretaker to emerge from the archways.The air was crisp, the light golden, and with each step deeper into the courtyard, it felt as though we were slipping through a door in time — one heartbeat closer to the stories these stones had held for hundreds of years.

    👑Crowned by a Child’s Gaze
    It didn’t take long before the castle walls stopped being just stone and history — they started to feel like part of a living story. As we wandered deeper into the courtyard, camera still clicking, a small voice rang out across the grounds:

    “Dad, look! There’s the princess!”

    The words floated through the crisp morning air, innocent and earnest, and for a moment, I froze. I had always loved fairytales — devoured them as a child, studied their deeper meanings as an English major, and clung to them during some of life’s darkest storms. But standing there, dress sweeping over ancient cobblestones, sword in hand and sunlight catching on my hair, I wasn’t reading the story anymore. I was the story.

    Laughter echoed from another corner of the courtyard where a tired father, clearly at his wit’s end, threatened his bickering children with a most medieval consequence: “If you don’t behave, I’ll have the queen lock you in the dungeon!” That made all of us laugh — the kids, the photographer, even me. But beneath the humor was a strange, beautiful truth: I wasn’t playing dress-up. I wasn’t pretending. I was the queen in the story — not because of the dress or the setting, but because I had finally claimed that role for myself.

    It was surreal, almost dizzying, how these small, whimsical interactions carried such weight. Years ago, I would’ve brushed them off, hidden from that kind of attention, told myself I wasn’t worthy of being anyone’s princess — let alone queen. I’d convinced myself that I was too imperfect, too much, or maybe not enough. But that day, wrapped in layers of fabric and courage in the middle of a Scottish castle, I didn’t shrink back.

    Being called “princess” and “queen” — for the first time in my life, I didn’t flinch at those titles. I embraced them. I believed them. I smiled; in that smile was the quiet acknowledgment of every thorn and scar, every hard-fought step that had brought me here.

    This was more than a photoshoot. It was a reclamation — a rewriting of a narrative for a girl who once doubted her place in the fairytale. I was no longer the girl on the outside looking in. I was the woman at the center of the story, thorns and all, standing in her God-given power and finally believing she had belonged in the castle all along — not as a visitor, but as its rightful queen. 🏰✨

    🗡️ Upon the Battlements: A Queen’s Watch

    Climbing the narrow spiral staircase to the upper walls felt like ascending into another chapter of the story.I walked the length of the battlements slowly and deliberately, sword in hand, the chill of the ancient stone seeping into my bare feet, grounding me in the present while connecting me to the countless souls who had walked there centuries before.

    Below stretched the fields — my “battlefields” — not of blood or conquest, but of resilience, faith, and every fight that had forged the woman standing there. With each step, I thought about the battles I had faced and the ones I had yet to fight, and how every scar had led me to this very moment.

    Then, in another moment — one I’ll never forget — I lowered the sword to my side and simply stood there, watching the expanse before me not as a dreamer, but as its rightful queen, poised on the edge of her reign. This was more than a pose for the camera — it was no longer about imagining what could be, but about claiming what already was. It was a coronation written not in crowns and ceremony, but in scars and strength, in the quiet promises forged through every battle I had faced.

    There, high atop the battlements, I made a silent promise to myself: that I would never again shrink from my own power, never again question my worth. I had fought for this view, this peace, this strength — and I had earned every inch of it. And from that height, with the wind at my back and a kingdom stretched before me, I no longer saw myself as a survivor of the story, but as the author of it — the queen who had risen, and who would continue to rise, again and again. 👑

    📖 Among Pages and Shadows: The Story Still Unfolding

    From the battlements, we stepped into the castle’s inner chambers — a stark shift from sweeping views to a world of quiet shadow and stone. The air was cooler here, touched by centuries of stories that seemed to hum beneath the surface. A narrow window let in a shaft of soft, diffused light, and as I stepped into its glow, the world outside faded away.

    The photographer handed me an old book, worn and weathered — not for its content, but for the story it suggested. I sank into a stillness I know well: the kind born of turning pages, of losing yourself in worlds written long before your own. Light spilled across my hair and pale skin, catching on the folds of emerald fabric and casting striking contrasts — darkness and light, strength and softness, shadow and story.

    It was more than a prop. Holding that book felt symbolic — a mirror of the life I was living and writing all at once. Every chapter I’d walked through, from pain to triumph, was there in the silence between the pages. Every scar and lesson, every tear and victory — all of it was part of a story still unfolding, still being written.Standing there, barefoot on the cold stone floor, I felt the weight of time pressing gently around me. The walls had witnessed centuries of lives, loves, losses — and now, they were witnessing mine. And in that quiet, luminous moment, I realized I wasn’t just holding a book. I was the book — chapters still unwritten, pages still turning, and a story that was far from over. 📖✨

    Echoes of the Past: Wandering Through Time

    Exploring the interior of Craigmillar Castle felt like walking through the pages of a story that had been written centuries before I arrived — and yet somehow, I was part of it now. The corridors were cool and dim, their stone walls breathing out the scent of rain and age, and every step I took seemed to stir up whispers of the past.

    I moved slowly, hand trailing along walls worn smooth by countless generations, imagining the lives that had unfolded here. I could almost hear the clatter of knights’ boots echoing up the spiral staircases — some racing to ready themselves for a royal quest, others polishing their armor in hopes of winning the queen’s favor. Their banners would have fluttered proudly in the courtyard, bright with heraldry, as orders were shouted and horses readied for departure.

    From somewhere deeper within, the soft strains of music seemed to drift from a great hall, mingling with the boisterous laughter of nobles gathered around a roaring feast. I pictured servants weaving between long wooden tables, their arms laden with platters of roast game and spiced breads, the rich aroma of smoky hearth fires curling through the corridors. And in the courtyard below, I saw horses stamping in the chill air, their breath misting like smoke as bright banners snapped overhead — a living, breathing tapestry of medieval life.

    With every step deeper into the ruin, the line between imagination and memory blurred. While standing in a narrow window slit or pausing beside the crumbling walls, I could almost feel the pulse of history thrumming beneath my fingertips — the hopes, fears, and quiet regrets of those who had once walked these same paths. The air itself seemed to hum with echoes of their stories. The castle didn’t feel abandoned; it felt alive with memory, its stones still carrying the weight of oaths sworn, battles fought, and dreams pursued. I felt small — humbled by the centuries pressing in around me — yet strangely powerful, grounded in the knowledge that this fortress had held more than just stone and mortar. It had borne witness to lives shaped by intrigue and loyalty, ambition and love… and now, in my own way, mine was among them..

    In these hushed spaces, the line between past and present blurred until I could no longer tell where my story ended and history began. I could almost see Mary, Queen of Scots moving through these same corridors — her footsteps slow and measured as she sought refuge here in 1566, her body weakened by illness but her spirit still fiercely alive. Perhaps she, too, paused at these narrow windows, looking out over the horizon and wondering which allies she could still trust. Somewhere behind these walls, I imagined nobles bent close together, their voices barely above a whisper as they drafted the infamous “Craigmillar Bond,” plotting to free their queen from a husband she no longer loved — or perhaps to free themselves from the consequences of her reign. History still debates whether she was part of the plot, but standing here centuries later, I could feel the tension of that moment clinging to the stone like moss.

    The castle around me seemed to hum with memory. I could almost hear the clank of armor as knights prepared for campaigns or rode out in search of glory, feel the heavy air of courtly intrigue weaving its way through the great hall, smell the roasting meats and spiced breads of a long-ago feast. It was easy to imagine musicians playing by firelight, their songs mingling with the laughter of nobles plotting alliances that would outlive them all. And somewhere in that tapestry of sound and story, I felt my own heartbeat steady and strong — a quiet rhythm joining theirs across the centuries.

    Like Mary, I, too, had known what it meant to seek refuge after a storm. I, too, had stood at the edge of uncertainty, unsure of who I could trust or how my story might unfold. The people who once called this place home had navigated betrayal, ambition, heartbreak, and hope — just as I had. And in that realization, I felt an unexpected kinship stretch across time. My battles had not been fought with armies or inked in secret pacts, but the resilience that carried me here was made of the same unyielding strength.

    The castle wasn’t just stone and silence — it breathed. It pulsed with memory, with the lingering heartbeat of every soul who had sought shelter, plotted destiny, or dreamed of something greater within its walls. I could feel their presence like a faint echo beneath my feet, a whisper threading through the corridors and curling around my thoughts. And in that stillness, I understood something deeply beautiful: I was not merely a visitor tracing the edges of history. I was a continuation of it — another heartbeat added to the rhythm of this place, another story etched into its weathered stones. My footsteps joined those of queens and courtiers, warriors and dreamers, and in their company, I felt both impossibly small and immeasurably significant — a living thread woven into a centuries-old tapestry.

    📜Epilogue of Becoming: A Tale Still Unfolding
    As the last light of the morning filtered through Craigmillar’s ancient windows, I paused one final time — hand pressed gently against the cold stone, breath caught somewhere between past and present. This day had been more than a photoshoot; it was a reckoning and a rebirth, a weaving together of who I once was and who I am still becoming. I had walked barefoot where queens once plotted, raised a sword where knights once swore oaths, and stood in the silence of centuries that seemed to know my name. The castle had become a mirror, reflecting not just the woman I am now, but every version of me who fought to exist — the girl who once doubted her worth, the warrior who refused to yield, the queen who finally learned she was worthy of the crown all along.

     As I turned back for one last look, the castle loomed behind me — not just a monument of stone and centuries, but a mirror of every version of myself I had met within its walls. The warrior. The dreamer. The girl who once doubted her worth. The woman who now claimed it without apology. I stepped out of the gate not as the same person who had walked in, but as someone still writing her story. The wind braided itself through my hair, a promise more than a farewell. I stepped out of the gate, certain the tale would continue, one breath, one page, one day at a time. ✨📜 🌹

    My walk to the park

    Some sneak peaks from my photoshoot:

  • 🌧️ When Plans Change: From Highlands Dreams to Hangry Detours

    Intro: 

    They say Scotland’s weather has a mind of its own — and on October 4, it decided to rewrite my plans entirely. No Highlands, no castles, no Harry Potter bridge… but somehow, the day still found its own kind of magic.

    October 4 — A Day of Cancellations, Cash-Only Chaos, and Culinary Redemption

    October 4 was supposed to be my grand Highlands adventure — twelve full hours of Scottish magic. We were going to drive through sweeping glens, visit castles where Outlander and Game of Thrones filmed, spot some adorable Highland cows, and even see the famous bridge where the Harry Potter train crosses. I was practically buzzing with excitement.

    But about 30 minutes outside Edinburgh, our guide got the call: every tour was canceled due to the weather. Storm Amy had officially taken over Scotland.

    I understood, of course — safety first — but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t seriously disappointed. I’d been looking forward to this day since before I even boarded the plane to Scotland. Instead of misty mountains and lochs, I found myself back at square one in the city with an unexpectedly open day.

    💅 Pivoting the Plan

    Trying to make the best of it, I decided to turn my travel day into a self-care day. A little “treat yourself” moment to make up for the letdown. I booked a mani-pedi appointment nearby, bundled up against the still-gloomy weather, and walked over.

    After waiting about twenty minutes, I was finally called up — only to be told they only take cash. 💸
    No mention of that online. No heads-up during booking. Just… surprise!

    At that point, I could practically feel my blood sugar dropping, my mood following close behind. The disappointment from the tour plus the frustration from the salon had officially made me hangry.

    🥩 The Redemption: A Brazilian Steakhouse Feast

    I decided food was the only logical solution. And not just any food — something hearty, satisfying, and worthy of rescuing the day. So, I treated myself to a Brazilian steakhouse for a late lunch/early dinner.

    It was exactly what I needed. Perfectly grilled meats, fresh sides, and a glass (or two) of something to toast my new plan-free day. Sometimes, a good meal really can reset your whole outlook.

    👗 A Quiet Evening In

    After lunch, I headed back early to my lodging — partly to dry off, partly because I needed to steam and iron my dress for the next day’s plans. It wasn’t the day I’d imagined, but it became a gentle reminder that travel isn’t just about the highlights — it’s also about how we handle the detours.

    Even without the castles and the Highland cows, I still ended the day full (literally and figuratively), cozy, and ready for whatever Scotland had in store next.

    The breakfast I snagged on my walk to my tour meet up point.
    The only other photo I took that day.

  • Scotland Day 3: A Whirlwind of Wind, Rain, and Sweet Treats: Croissants, Harris Tweed, and Stormy Scottish Adventures 🥐👜💨

    💬 Info Blurb:

    October 3 started slow and easy, with crisp air, rising winds 🌬️, and a sense of anticipation for another day of Scottish adventures. From leisurely walks through the city streets to indulgent pastries at Lannan Bakery 🥐, a crafting workshop in St. Andrews 👜, and a wild, stormy ride back to Edinburgh 🌧️💨, this day was all about savoring small joys, meeting fascinating people, and embracing the unexpected. By the end, cozy couches, warm food, and comfy shoes were the ultimate rewards after miles of exploration and excitement.

    🍃 A Slow, Leisurely Start to October 3

    October 3 started out as a slow, leisurely morning. The weather was crisp, the wind picking up — felt like I was approaching Casper, Wyoming. I hung around the common gathering area at my lodging, which had cozy couches, game tables, and a full kitchen for guests.

    They also had a world map where travelers could stick a pin from their hometown. Greeley, CO — you’re officially on the map now! 🗺️ Around it were travel quotes, and I snapped a few of my favorites:

    “People don’t take trips—trips take people.” — John Steinbeck
    “Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
    “Once a year go someplace you’ve never been before.” — Dalai Lama
    “A wise man travels to discover himself.” — James Russell Lowell
    “The journey, not the arrival, matters.” — T.S. Eliot
    “Travel far enough, you meet yourself.” — David Mitchell
    “Travel makes one modest; you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.” — Gustav Flaubert

    🥐 Worth the Wait: Lannan Bakery

    After a slow, easy morning, I set out toward Lannan, another irresistible TikTok find I just had to try. The walk there was lovely — crisp air filling my lungs, the wind brushing past like a familiar friend, and beautiful views all around 🏞️. From one hilltop, I could see across the waters toward northern Scotland, which made me even more excited for my Highlands adventure the next day.

    Every step through the neighborhoods felt like walking onto the set of a film 🎬. I adore historical fiction, and for a moment, it felt like Emily in Paris — but make it Dakota in Scotland 🇬🇧✨.

    When I reached the bakery, a queue was already winding down the street (always a good sign!). I joined the back of the line, secretly hoping it would live up to the hype.

    Even if the pastries hadn’t been incredible, the wait was worth it for the company alone. In front of me was a gal from London 🇬🇧 visiting for a friend’s wedding; behind me, a retired local petroleum engineer picking up his weekly bread 🥖. We joked about buying out the bakery before he got his loaf — all in good fun, of course. She gave me some great insight on other places to travel to in Europe, and even London if I make a trip there. The gentleman told me about some of his favorite local spots, which was a great glimpse into how people really live here. I’ve found that while I enjoy some “touristy” things, my favorite travel experiences come from seeing the way locals live — where they shop, eat, and gather.

    When we finally got inside (nearly an hour later!), the smell alone was intoxicating — buttery, sweet, and warm. And options there were! I kick myself for not having taken a photo inside the bakery of the decadent options that were available. I ended up choosing two things:

    🥐 Almond Croissant — twice-baked with almond frangipane and flaked almonds. Just look at the side of this croissant!! It was literally the size of my head! Did I eat every last morsel? You bet I did! Every luxurious crumb was pure buttery perfection.
    🍫 Caramelised Almond & Chocolate Pastry — which I planned to save for breakfast…but definitely ate later that day (oops).

    Final verdict: Lannan was well worth the wait. Next time I’m back in Edinburgh, I might just stockpile those almond croissants — one for every day of my life! 😋💛

    🛍️ Lunch & Crafting: Pho Before the Workshop 🍜👜

    After dropping off my pastries and shopping finds 🧳, it was time for a quick lunch before heading to St. Andrews for the bag-making workshop. I stopped at a bustling mall, four or five stories tall, full of shops and food vendors. With Storm Amy rolling in, everyone was crowding inside, trying to stay warm and dry 🌧️. I chose a bowl of pho — rare steak only, as they were out of brisket. The steaming broth, tender noodles, and fresh herbs were exactly what I needed to warm up and recharge. It wasn’t Pho Duy in Greeley, but it hit the spot perfectly after my morning of walking and bakery indulgence 🥢.

    Once I finished, I made my way to the train station for St. Andrews. Navigating the ticket kiosks was a bit overwhelming at first with all the signage, but the friendly “station grandpa” helped me purchase my tickets both ways, making sure I’d have no issues with the journey 🚆.

    From there, the train ride gave me time to admire the city and countryside, catching glimpses of neighborhoods, coastlines, and historic buildings, all while thinking ahead to designing my Harris Tweed bag 👜.

    🚆 All Aboard: Edinburgh to St. Andrews

    After finishing my warming bowl of pho 🥢, I made my way to the train station to catch the train to St. Andrews for my bag-making workshop. Navigating the ticket kiosks was a bit overwhelming at first, with multiple signs and options, but the friendly “station grandpa” helped me purchase tickets both ways, making sure I’d be all set for the journey. His warmth and humor immediately put me at ease.

    As I waited for the train, I couldn’t help but notice how much the station must have inspired J.K. Rowling when creating the Hogwarts train experience. The brickwork, the columns, the benches — everything felt like it belonged in a magical story ✨.

    While waiting, I met a lovely couple from Belfast, Ireland, on their way to visit family. We shared stories and laughs about the beauty of St. Andrews, and I loved hearing about their grandchildren’s adventures. It’s these kinds of moments — chatting with locals and travelers alike — that make journeys so memorable.

    Once on the train, the scenery didn’t disappoint 🌿🏞️. Rain and wind whipped against the windows as we traveled, but the views of the city, countryside, and coastline made it all worth it. I couldn’t help but think about how lucky I was to be immersed in this mix of culture, history, and breathtaking landscapes.

    The train ride was smooth and allowed me to mentally prepare for the workshop ahead — designing my very own Harris Tweed bag 👜. I was excited to blend traditional Scottish craftsmanship with my own personal style, and the anticipation made the journey fly by.

    👜 Crafting My Own Piece of Scotland: Harris Tweed Workshop

    Once I arrived in St. Andrews, I made my way to the Islander Store for my bag-making workshop. The weather was still rainy 🌧️, so I didn’t take as many photos as I might have, but the excitement of creating my own bag more than made up for it.

    For years, I had wanted a Harris Tweed bag — the traditional handwoven Scottish wool is dyed, spun, and woven entirely in the Outer Hebrides, and it has a protected designation under the Harris Tweed Act of 1993. The quality, craftsmanship, and history behind it are incredible, and I knew that building my own would be a far more memorable experience than simply purchasing one off the shelf.

    Inside the store, I had to decide whether to stick with my originally booked bag or switch to a different style. I debated between a backpack and a medium satchel but eventually settled on the satchel, excited to customize every detail. I chose the body of the bag, the lid, the straps, the handle, and even the crossbody color 🎨.

    During assembly, I found myself helping a few of the other participants with their bags — the photos I have are from these moments. Once all the bags were completed, I realized that my satchel matched my outfit perfectly — clearly, even my bag has great fashion sense 😏.

    By the time the workshop ended, I had a custom Harris Tweed satchel in my hands, built entirely by me — a tangible memory of Scotland, full of color, history, and personal flair 🧵✨. Walking away with it felt like carrying a little piece of Scottish heritage with me.

    🚆 Back to Edinburgh: Stormy Travels & Evening Adventures 🌧️💨

    After finishing the bag workshop in St Andrews, I wasn’t about to walk back to Edinburgh, and let’s be real—my Day 1 Airport Marathon training hadn’t prepared me for a trek through puddles, crowded platforms, and slippery sidewalks! Determined to avoid that, I skipped dinner in St Andrews as originally planned and boogied back to the bus and train station. Storm Amy was rolling in with heavy rain and strong winds 🌧️💨.

    The journey back was intense. The train moved slower than usual, battling the storm, and I couldn’t help but think how much that airport sprint had almost trained me for this kind of chaos 😅. I found a spot in the railcar with a father-daughter duo, and their cheerful banter and video logging of their day helped lighten the mood. The daughter was planning to study English, and she asked for some advice on what to do and remember while pursuing her studies—such a thoughtful conversation in the middle of a stormy train ride!

    The father-daughter duo were delightful company, chatting about their travels and life, while I soaked in the dramatic stormy scenery. By the time we arrived in Edinburgh, everyone was hungry, cold, and ready to refuel.

    💨 Nightlife in Edinburgh

    I was exhausted, hungry and decided to grab a quick bite at The Standing Order, a former bank turned pub. Fun fact: this spot had been recommended to me by someone I know in Italy and the friendly local gentleman from Lannan Bakery earlier that day—clearly, it was meant to be! 🍔

    I was so stared that I forgot to snap photos of the beautiful building-but I did capture my burger, which hit the spot perfectly. Feeling my second wind, I wandered to another nearby pub for some live music and a pint..or more. 🍺🎶.

    While there, I met a lively group of friends who invited me to go dancing 💃🎵. The pub had become too crowded with Scottish men I didn’t care to converse with any longer, so we headed to a nearby club instead. The energy was infectious, and we danced the night away. After one of the friends got drenched in a spilled beer 🍺😅, we moved to the balcony for a bit more space and continued enjoying the music. Eventually, everyone headed off to their friends’ college dorms, and I made my way back to the hostel 🛌.

    Gear That Saved the Day

    If only I had my umbrella—I could’ve Mary Poppin’ed my way through the wind and rain ☔✨. Even so, I was seriously impressed with my Amazon trench coat and De Florance shoes 👢💨. I had purchased the first edition DF Cloud Sneakers specifically for all the walking I knew I’d be doing in Italy, and when the 2.0 version launched, I grabbed an additional color. The improvements to the insole were insane—literally like walking on clouds ☁️. I kept swapping the 2.0 insole into whichever color I wore that day. They were casual enough to wear with a slightly dressed-up outfit yet perfectly supportive for miles of walking. My feet stayed completely dry the entire day—a huge win, since I despise wet socks. I even almost brought my hiking boots from Colorado, but in hindsight, I’m so glad I didn’t—they would have been total overkill.

    🛌 Ending the Day

    After a long, wet, and adventure-filled day, I retruned to my lodging, took a hot shower, and crawled into my bunk for a cozy night’s sleep. Despite the wind, rain, and long miles, I felt fulfilled, inspired, and ready for whatever Scotland had in store next✨.

    You didn’t think I’d not take an Edinburgh Castle picture for the day?!
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    I had joked with friends that I constantly need a green backdrop of this shade to follow me around.
    Stormy coastlines
    St Andrew’s
    My group’s final selections laid out and ready to be assembled.

    Helping out the other’s in my group to get their bags assembled.

    Just look at the lean on these trees!

  • Rain-Kissed Cobblestones and Hidden Corners: A Misty Autumn Day in Edinburgh 🌧️🍁✨

    Info Blurb

    Day 2 in Scotland brought fall colors, castle views, centuries of history, and (of course) rain 🌧️. From wandering through the golden paths of Princes Street Gardens to exploring Old Town, historic cemeteries, Calton Hill for sweeping city views, and finishing with the most decadent crepe imaginable 🍫🥔, I discovered Edinburgh one cobblestone at a time—soaked, happy, and inspired.

    🌳 Morning in the Gardens: A Walk Through Autumn

    The day began quietly, with that soft morning chill I love about fall 🍂. I wandered into Princes Street Gardens, where the Ross Fountain shimmered in copper and turquoise hues against a misty sky 💧. Benches lined the walkway, each one occupied by a story: couples talking, parents playing with their kids, and one man calmly reading as the city woke around him 📖.

    For the first time ever, I saw holly growing wild 🌿—its glossy leaves and bright red berries popping against the grey morning light. The Royal Scots War Memorial stood solemnly nearby, and at its base, a single coral-colored rose 🌹 stood tall, defiant against the drizzle that had started to fall. The view of Edinburgh Castle rising above the gardens was majestic 🏰, like something straight out of a fairytale ✨.

    ☔ Old Town Adventures: Rain, Cobblestones & Potatoes

    The rain didn’t let up as I made my way into Old Town 🌧️, but surprisingly, I didn’t mind—it just added charm to the glistening cobblestones 🌫️😊.

    My first stop was The Writer’s Museum ✍️, celebrating Scotland’s literary giants—Burns, Scott, and Stevenson. As someone with a master’s in English, wandering through the exhibits felt like stepping into a living anthology 📚✨. Manuscripts, letters, and personal artifacts whispered stories of creativity, struggle, and brilliance.

    Next, I passed the Heatherbow Wellhead, a historic fountain that once served as a vital water source ⛲ and is a quiet reminder of Edinburgh’s past.

    I wandered along the Royal Mile, enjoying the mix of old stone buildings, charming shops, and the quiet hum of locals and tourists 🏘️.

    Lunch was a no-brainer: Tempting Tattie (Est. 1974) 🥔, another TikTok find I had saved months ago. Fluffy, buttery, and loaded with toppings, it was exactly what I needed to refuel after a morning of exploring 😋.

    After lunch, I explored Victoria Street 🌈, with its colorful, curved buildings and tiny shops. Rumor has it this street inspired Diagon Alley ⚡. I stopped at The Elephant House 🏠—famously known as the birthplace of Harry Potter. Though rebuilt after a fire, the café gives a glimpse of what J.K. Rowling might have seen while writing 🪄. I grabbed a non-alcoholic Butterbeer 🧋, which was refreshing after a morning of walking.

    I also peeked into The Islander Flagship Store 🧵 for inspiration for a tweed bag workshop I had planned the next day 😉.

    ⚰️ A Walk Through History: Cemeteries, Monuments & Ancient Stones

    After Old Town, I explored the kirk yard 🌿. The cemetery is steeped in history, with links to Bloody Mackenzie 🩸👻, the Covenanter’s Prison 🏰🔒, and even J.K. Rowling’s inspiration ✨📖.

    🩸 Bluidy Mackenzie

    Sir George Mackenzie, known as “Bluidy Mackenzie,” was a 17th-century Scottish lawyer and Lord Advocate. In 1679, following the Battle of Bothwell Bridge, he imprisoned over 1,200 Covenanters—Protestants who resisted the Crown’s attempts to impose Anglican practices in the Church of Scotland. These prisoners were held in harsh conditions in what became known as the Covenanter’s Prison, located within Greyfriars Kirkyard. Many suffered and died due to mistreatment and overcrowding. Mackenzie’s brutal enforcement of the King’s policies earned him the grim nickname “Bluidy Mackenzie” (Edinburgh News).

    Today, visitors can see the Black Mausoleum, Mackenzie’s burial site, which has become infamous for reports of paranormal activity. The area is said to be haunted by the so-called Mackenzie Poltergeist, with numerous accounts of unexplained phenomena, including cold spots, scratches, and even physical attacks on visitors

    The Covenanter’s Prison

    The Covenanter’s Prison, a section of the kirkyard, was used to detain these dissenters under extreme conditions in 1679. Some were held for weeks, others, months, without proper food, water, or shelter, and many succumbed to illness. Today, the area is locked by the Scottish government, reportedly due to extreme paranormal activity 👻💀 ( Covenanter).

    I felt completely fine walking up to the gated section—but as soon as I stuck my arm through the bars to take a photo, an instant, heavy, overwhelming pit in my stomach hit me. Chills, goosebumps, and a real sense of the intense history of suffering lingered long after I pulled back 🌫️😳.

    🪄 J.K. Rowling’s Inspiration

    Greyfriars Kirkyard is also a place of literary inspiration. J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series, lived in Edinburgh during the time she wrote the books. The city’s rich history and architecture influenced her work, and some of the names in Greyfriars Kirkyard served as inspiration for characters in her novels. For instance, Thomas Riddell’s grave is believed to have inspired the name of Lord Voldemort, whose birth name was Tom Riddle. Additionally, the name “McGonagall” is thought to have been inspired by the grave of William McGonagall, a 19th-century poet (CityDays).

    Nearby, the Stones of Scotland offered a fascinating geological twist 🪨. In the center, there’s a single tree and a curious rock with a footprint carved into it—like a mini Arthurian legend waiting to be discovered 🏰. Of course, I had to try fitting my own foot in the imprint… and voilà, it fit perfectly! I may have felt like Arthur reaching for Excalibur, if only for a moment ⚔️✨.

    The Robert Burns Monument stood proudly nearby, a tribute to Scotland’s beloved poet, while Jacob’s Ladder, possibly the steepest steps I’ve ever seen 🪜, offered more than just a literal climb. Named for the biblical story of Jacob’s dream—a ladder stretching from earth to heaven, connecting the mortal and the divine—it felt almost symbolic as I observed it. Even from the top, the sheer height and angle made me imagine each step carrying a sense of aspiration and wonder, like a bridge between history, legend, and the Edinburgh skyline 🌌✨.

    🌄 Views from Above: Calton Hill & Scott Monument

    Next, I headed to Calton Hill 🏞️, one of Edinburgh’s most iconic vantage points. The climb itself was gentle—thankfully, coming from high-elevation Colorado gave me an edge 😅. I’m pretty sure in a few weeks, that same climb might not feel so easy (laugh)!

    The panoramic views from the top were breathtaking 🌅✨. From up there, I could see the city stretching to the water, hills rolling into the distance, and rooftops glinting in the soft autumn light.

    The hill is dotted with historic monuments. The National Monument, inspired by the Parthenon in Athens, was meant to honor Scottish soldiers who died in the Napoleonic Wars 🏛️. Nearby, the Nelson Monument, built to commemorate Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar, looks like a giant telescope pointing skyward 🔭. I wandered among the monuments, imagining the history they’ve silently witnessed over centuries.

    From Calton Hill, I could also take in Scott Monument, the towering Gothic tribute to Sir Walter Scott 🏰📚. Its intricate stonework and spires are breathtaking from afar, and the sheer scale makes it feel like the city itself is paying homage to one of Scotland’s greatest literary figures. Standing there, high above Edinburgh, the combination of history, architecture, and natural beauty felt truly spellbinding ✨.

    🍫 Decadence in the Evening: CORO Chocolate Café

    By the time I made it back toward my lodging, it was the perfect hour for a treat. I had saved CORO Chocolate Café via TikTok months ago, and it did not disappoint 😍. Located just around the corner from where I was staying, I decided to build my own crepe—creepy in name only, IYKYK 👀. Mine had salted caramel sauce, banana, pecans, and dark chocolate shavings 🍌🍫🌰. Each bite was pure decadence, perfectly ending a day that had already been filled with history, literature, fall colors, and just enough rain to make the cobblestones gleam.

    As I savored the last bite, I couldn’t help but reflect on the day: a full Edinburgh experience, blending history, architecture, literature, and pure culinary joy. Walking back to my room, I felt happy, inspired, and ready for whatever adventure awaited me next in this captivating city ✨.

    Photos

    This is going to be a lot of photos. I tried to keep them as group together as possible.





    This bird looks like a dragon to me. I had to do a double take!
    Ross Fountain
    Princes Street Park
    Park Reading
    Holly
    Royal Scot War Memorial
    The Official Royal House when they are in Scotland
    Robert Burns Monument