Back from the blogging abyss

The last time I wrote here was in December 2024, when my dad passed away, and there’s a reason for that.

When I went to Paris in the spring of 2024, my plan was simple. I’d take photos, check in with my dad while I was there so he could see pieces of the trip with me, and then pull it all together into a blog post afterward. At the time, writing during the trip felt like too much. I wanted to be present, to experience it as it was happening, not through a draft folder.

So I let the blog wait.

Paris ended up being the last trip where everything still felt like “normal.” Before I left, I did what I always do before a flight to Europe, I called my dad from the airport. It was a small ritual, but one I never skipped. While I was there, I checked in with him several times so he could see what I was seeing, and when I got home, I sent him a t-shirt, just like I always did.

Somewhere in those conversations, I told him something I’d been thinking about for a while, that maybe, someday, I’d spend more time in France. I didn’t have a plan. It was more of an idea than anything concrete. But given his years of traveling internationally through the military, I knew he understood that kind of pull, and he was completely supportive.

That trip felt different because of that. It wasn’t just a visit. It was a quiet test, a way of seeing how it felt to be there for a longer stretch of time. And somewhere along the way, I realized that I could see myself doing it.

What I didn’t expect was how hard it would be to come back and write about it later.

That trip became something I had already shared with him in real time, which made sitting down to document it feel different. And then in December, he was gone.

When I traveled again, to Ireland and Scotland in October 2025, everything had shifted. I got to the airport out of habit, already reaching for my phone, and then it hit me that there was no one to call. That moment, the one that used to mark the start of every trip, just… stopped. It broke my heart in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

And it didn’t stop there. Throughout that trip, there were so many moments where I would have normally texted him a photo or called to tell him where I was, what I was seeing, something small that would have made him smile. Not being able to share any of it with him in real time made the whole experience feel quieter, heavier. And for the first time, I came home without a t-shirt for him. Plus there was the unexpected crying in the middle of an Irish cemetery, but I guess that's the most appropriate place to do it.

So the posts never got written. Not for Paris. Not for Ireland and Scotland.

But they’ve been sitting with me this whole time.

I'll be back soon to share about both trips.