Going back is also a way of leaving

The magic of returning to a place that’s no longer home.

I never thought I’d want to see her again. Didn’t think I’d miss her. Definitely didn’t expect to one day consider spending my savings on a flight just to see her face again.
Never pictured myself packing a suitcase full of emotions I never quite knew how to show her, or replaying stories she never got to hear.

She never used to stir much in me. Didn’t think her scent would have such a clear spot in my memory. Didn’t think her absence would sting like this. Didn’t even consider what a life without her would feel like.

But then I went back to Buenos Aires. And suddenly, all of that hit me.

Caught off guard by a tidal wave of emotions I thought I’d outgrown—at 26 you feel like you’ve outlived your emotional chaos—I could only ask myself: Can you miss something deeply, and still not choose it?

The contradiction of feeling two completely opposite things at once left me speechless. So, as always, I went looking for answers.

The Trip

Every trip brings something. Fresh air, a shift, a shake-up. The word itself implies movement—of the body, or the mind. It might be a therapy session that drags you inward, or some mad adventure in Patagonia that throws you into the unknown.
But the effect’s the same: a before and after in how you see things.

Travelling is about discovering. Travelling is becoming.

That pre-trip moment always feels like a perfect mix of excitement and logistics.
Everything revolves around what’s coming, what you don’t know yet, what could surprise you. You leave the routine behind and suddenly the world looks brighter.
There’s something very human about being excited for the new—about imagining yourself inside different stories.

As the years go by, that excitement dulls a bit. Life’s shown you not everything goes to plan, so you learn to manage expectations, to go in lighter.

But some emotions don’t care how old you are. And this March, going home filled me with butterflies.

The weird thing? This time it wasn’t about newness. It was about the familiar. The everyday. The places I once called mine.

I managed my emotions when I moved halfway across the world—but no one taught me what to do with the ones that show up when you go back. Back home. Back to Buenos Aires.

And faced with the familiar, what showed up wasn’t peace. It was panic.

I forgot I planted seeds

Packing your bags and leaving home can happen for a million reasons.
In my case, it was meant to be a break. A pause from Buenos Aires. A comma that accidentally turned into a full stop.

Moving far away strips you of references. No one knows you. No corner makes you feel nostalgic. Your priorities don’t carry weight. Your jokes in English don’t land.
And your neighbours greet you in a different language—if they greet you at all.

You’re facing a blank page.

And with that much empty space, I realised I’m heavily shaped by my surroundings. I get inspired easily. So, if the soil was fertile, I wasn’t gonna sit still—I grabbed a spade and started digging.

Survival does that. It pushes you into corners of yourself you didn’t even know existed.
New emotional landscapes. Ideas that once felt impossible. Every step felt like a bet. Not digging felt like giving up. And that, for me, was never an option.

From July to March, I focused on building something that felt like me. That felt mine.
I worked hard, exposed myself even more, and found comfort in people who started to get my sense of humour, in cafés that figured out how I like my cappuccino. I was solid.

But I was still in motion. My convictions were fragile, my choices blurry, my answers inconsistent. I wasn’t the same person. And with no one around to remind me who I used to be, I started to doubt.

There’s something really powerful about having your choices mirrored by people who know you. They know what’s you, and without even realising it, they either validate or challenge what you do.

I’d planted seeds, sure. But I’d left the harvest behind—without even saying goodbye.

Sorting the mess

Building a new life has a bit of experimentation, a bit of guts, and a whole lot of chaos.
It’s exciting, yeah. That chance to start from scratch with a bit more clarity about who you are (or who you want to be) is a gift—one you don’t always recognise in the moment. I took it seriously.

Driven by ambition, I set out to build something real. Not just something shiny—something solid. Something honest. Something that fit into this idea I now have of what living well means. I repaired stuff. I shifted priorities. I made decisions I used to dodge.

But if the foundations are shaky, no matter how nice the tower looks, it’s gonna tremble.

Going back to Buenos Aires—or to your home country—is a jolt. You’re face to face with where you come from, but from a whole new place.

You no longer have your own room. Your things came with you. And in that city where you used to be local, now you’re a visitor.

That first trip back is like a quiet little test: Does what you built still hold? Or does it crumble the second someone hugs you?

And then come the questions. So many. Blunt, loving, invasive:

So, what now?
Do you speak in that language all day now?
But why’d you leave if you had everything here?
And how long are you staying?

I don’t have answers. Not all of them. Not yet.

If what you built is weak, the trip back will shake it apart. But if it’s rooted well, going back makes it stronger. That’s what I came to do: To unpick in order to understand. To clear out wardrobes, sort through the emotional mess, and close chapters with the same heart I used to leave.

My inconsistent answers weren’t about fear or confusion. They were the echo of leaving behind a piece of myself— the piece that was born in the noise, chaos, and raw beauty of this city that made me who I am.

Leave a door open, and a part of you always keeps slipping out through it.

Magic Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires has this magical way of wrapping itself around you. It’s chaotic. It’s full-on. It’s dramatic. But it’s so alive it cuts right through you.

It taught me to look at the world with curiosity. To tell stories with words and hands (lots of hands). To realise that everything I am today was baked slowly between packed buses, cracked pavements and cafés where conversations never end.

Going back scrambles all your pieces. Because even if you try to reinvent yourself in new cities, there’s something about Buenos Aires that always pulls you back—its rhythm, its people, its unfiltered truth.

It’s magic because it knows you like no one else.

Coming back isn’t just walking familiar streets. It’s bumping into the version of yourself you left on pause.

It throws hard questions at you. It confronts your choices. But it also gives you signs. Certainty. A warm dose of nostalgia.

Even if it’s no longer home in the traditional sense, it still knows how to make you feel like you belong. Even if you’re not sure where that is anymore.

But nostalgia’s not a destination. And right now, it’s not time to go back.

Choosing Buenos Aires would be holding on to a version of me I love, but that no longer exists. Some chapters are best honoured from afar. And sometimes, the truest thing you can do is accept that something already gave you all it had to offer.

Buenos Aires is part of me. But today, I’ve got new questions. New landscapes. And the courage to see where the unknown leads.