The Journey That Led Me Here: Travel, Yoga & Finding a Different Way to Live

I remember feeling empty. At school, I was lost. I followed people, had no real ambitions and no idea what I wanted to become. I kind of just stumbled into things and went along with whatever came my way.

From a very young age, life felt dull. I felt dull.

I struggled at school in pretty much every class apart from those that involved being outdoors or doing something creative. I was told I needed extra help, and

somewhere along the way I started believing that meant I was stupid. For a long time, I genuinely thought there might be something wrong with me.

Looking back now, I wonder if perhaps I was simply in the wrong place.

Following the Path I Thought I Should

After school, I went to college to study Uniformed Public Services. I wanted to do something good in the world, stand up to bullies and help people. There was truth in that — helping people has always mattered to me — but if I'm completely truthful, there was another building at college that I used to stare at.

The dance building.

I'd grown up dancing. I started when I was three years old, practically the same time I started walking, and deep down I wanted to be over there. But pursuing dance wasn't really encouraged. My parents thought I'd be better off choosing something more worthwhile, and at the time I understood their reasoning. Looking back, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I'd simply been encouraged to choose for myself.

I continued with Public Services and eventually began training for the Metropolitan Police through one of their voluntary programmes, but after failing my first exam, the path I'd imagined for myself seemed to disappear.

So... what now?

At 19, I found a job at Heathrow Airport. It was a good opportunity that gave me independence and better money, but I was bored. I never wanted to get up in the morning, I was always late, and I remember wondering why I was there.

My life wasn't terrible. I lived at home with my mum and brother, I had a lovely boyfriend and I had a job. Nothing dramatic happened that forced me to leave. I just couldn't shake the feeling that there had to be something else. The sound of adventure — another country, another life, somewhere completely different — excited me far more than what was sitting directly in front of me.

Looking back, I think part of me was searching for adventure and another part was simply trying to escape. I loved my family dearly, but there had been instability growing up that I didn't yet have the awareness to understand. At that age, I wasn't analysing any of it.

All I knew was: escape, run.

And I did. Oh my, what a fabulous idea it was.

Australia

Strangely, I can't even remember who first planted the idea of Australia in my head. There was no grand life plan or carefully mapped-out journey around the world. My mum and her new partner had booked a family holiday to Australia over Christmas 2011 into 2012, and when everyone else flew home, I stayed.

I'd booked myself onto an Aus Intro week so I could meet people and had only a couple of grand saved in the bank. That was about the extent of my preparation.

I still remember my mum and brother dropping me off at the hostel. There I was: bleached blonde, enormous white suitcases and absolutely no idea what I was doing.

I was nervous, shy and overwhelmed. My mum and I were very close, so of course there were tears when we said goodbye. Then they left, and suddenly I was alone. I climbed straight onto the top bunk and called my boyfriend for comfort. Everyone else in the room seemed to already know each other. They were laughing together while I sat there wanting to join them but having absolutely no idea how.

Eventually, I built up the courage to climb down and join in.

Those intimidating strangers became my friends. After our week together, some of us moved to Coogee Bay and a few of the girls and I moved into a ridiculously tiny room together — a double bunk bed with a single above it, a wardrobe and a sink. That was pretty much it.

I lived about ten steps from the beach. I was earning more money than I'd ever earned before. We partied, laughed and made memories. For the first time in a very long time, life didn't feel dull.

Neither did I.

When Home Didn't Feel Like Home Anymore

After two years in Australia, I returned to the UK. I thought I was coming home, but almost immediately something felt off.

While I'd been away, my mum had moved into a beautiful new home with her partner. Everything was unfamiliar. I remember arriving jet-lagged and going downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water. I opened one cupboard. No glasses. Another cupboard. Still no glasses.

I couldn't find the goddamn glasses in my own mum's house.

I broke down and cried.

Of course, it wasn't really about the glass. I'd spent two years building a completely different life, making my own decisions and becoming independent, and suddenly I was "home" somewhere that didn't feel like home anymore.

I tried to settle again, but within a few months my old buddy Owen suggested a ski season.

OOOO HELL YEAH.

I was gone again.

A Life of Movement

One season became another. Winter became summer, summer became winter, and before I knew it I'd done six or seven seasons, jumping between countries, jobs and groups of people. I worked in housekeeping, hospitality, kids' camps and pretty much anything that allowed me to keep moving.

My twenties were messy. I partied, made questionable decisions, got things wrong and got into trouble at work more times than I care to admit. But I had a bloody good time, and looking back, I wouldn't take those years back for anything.

Maybe our twenties are supposed to be a bit messy. A time to experiment, make bad decisions, fall flat on our faces and slowly discover what makes us come alive.

I met incredible people and lived in beautiful places. I collected stories and experiences rather than building a conventional career. Slowly, I started to realise that maybe I wasn't meant to stay in one place or have one job. Maybe there wasn't anything wrong with wanting to keep moving.

But eventually another question appeared: was travelling, partying and working whatever job came along really enough for me?

The answer was no. Something was still missing.

When Everything Stopped

Then COVID arrived, and after years of constantly moving, the world stopped. So did I.

It was a dark period. I found myself back at my mum's with more time than I'd probably ever had to think. I watched documentaries, learned about the environment, animal agriculture and veganism, and became overwhelmed by how much suffering there seemed to be in the world. I didn't yet know how to care about it without carrying all of it myself.

Eventually, I found a job delivering flowers around London. I spent long days driving and listening to hundreds of podcasts. I learned SO much, and those hours alone gave my mind somewhere else to go. In its own strange way, that job helped save me.

Six months later, I'd saved enough money to leave again. But this time, I wasn't only searching for another country. Something deeper was calling me.

The Thing I'd Forgotten

I couldn't explain what was missing. Strangely, the answer didn't come from my mind. It came from my body.

Movement. Dance.

Dance had been there almost from the beginning. I'd started when I was three and danced seriously for around sixteen years before somehow leaving it behind. The girl who had once stared across at the dance building at college had spent years travelling the world, and now her body was asking her to come back.

So I did what anyone having a spiritual awakening apparently does. I Googled it.

I don't even remember exactly what I was searching for, but the same two words kept appearing: Shakti Dance.

Eventually, I clicked. It looked... cool.

I contacted the organiser, who suggested I come to Croatia to experience a workshop. If I connected with it, I could continue training to become a practitioner. Ooooooh. Now this sounded interesting.

Within a week, I'd booked my flight.

I arrived on an island in Croatia with a backpack and a one-man tent. It felt like heaven. I hiked the hills, camped surrounded by the sound of crickets and the sea, journalled and started writing poems. Something creative in me was waking up again.

Then came Shakti.

Oh, Shakti.

She took hold of me and rattled my bones. She shook me awake.

For the first time in years, I felt as though I'd returned to my body. I cried almost every time I entered that studio. Movement was unlocking something I'd forgotten was there. After years of looking outside myself for the next place, job or adventure, suddenly I was being asked to go somewhere completely different: inwards.

Dance had been my expression for sixteen years. It had been part of me long before travelling, seasonal jobs or any idea of spirituality. My body had been trying to tell me something.

Finally, I was listening.

I continued my Shakti Dance training in Slovenia, where I spent nine months volunteering at an animal sanctuary. Somewhere amongst all of that, I turned thirty and met the man who would later become my husband.

Another decade of my life had begun, and this time I wanted something different from it.

The Journey Inwards

Around this time, I began to realise something I'd perhaps been avoiding for years: no matter where I ran to, I still took myself with me.

I could change countries, jobs, relationships and scenery, but I still had to live inside the same body and with the same mind. Travel had given me freedom and some of the greatest experiences of my life, but it couldn't resolve everything I carried within me.

At thirty, during another difficult period, I had my first therapy session.

Wow, what a relief.

For the first time, I started looking properly at myself — my childhood, my relationships, my patterns and why I responded to the world in the ways that I did. I began to understand that finding myself wasn't only about discovering who I was; sometimes it meant understanding where I'd come from too.

For years I'd been travelling outwards. Now I was beginning to travel inwards.

Then came India.

India wasn't the romantic spiritual awakening I might have imagined. It challenged me enormously. The noise, smells, poverty, constant stimulation and some difficult encounters overwhelmed me at times. I arrived open, smiling and eager to meet everyone, and quickly learned some hard lessons about boundaries, trusting myself and the power of saying no — and actually meaning it.

But India was also the beginning of my relationship with yoga. At the time, yoga was still largely physical for me. I wanted to stretch, move and work my body. The deeper connection between body, mind and breath would take much longer to understand — and honestly, I'm still learning.

One person who touched me deeply was my philosophy teacher, Swamiji. Every day he would hike around 45 minutes up the mountain simply to come and teach us. His presence captivated me. Through him, I was introduced to meditation, pranayama and yoga philosophy in a way I'd never experienced before.

I didn't understand everything he taught. Sometimes I still don't. But something about those lessons opened another door.

Perhaps yoga wasn't asking me to become something new. Perhaps it was teaching me how to listen.

While travelling in India, I was encouraged to visit Dharamsala, where I attended a ten-day Introduction to Buddhism course at Tushita Meditation Centre. There, my understanding of the world shifted again.

I learned about suffering, attachment, compassion and the nature of the mind. I began questioning our constant search for the next thing we think will finally make us happy — the next place, experience, relationship or achievement.

That one hit rather close to home.

I'd spent years searching outside myself. Buddhism encouraged me to turn that curiosity inwards and investigate my own mind. It taught me more about compassion — for other people, for every living being and, something I've found much harder, for myself.

I didn't suddenly find all the answers in India. Yoga didn't give them to me either, and neither did Buddhism.

If anything, they gave me more questions.

Maybe that's the point.

Still Becoming

Fourteen years after I first stayed behind in Australia with my enormous white suitcases and absolutely no idea what I was doing, I'm still travelling.

I continue because I genuinely believe there is magic everywhere in this world. In mountains, cultures, conversations with strangers and places completely unlike our own, but also in the simplest moments — waking up, making a cup of tea and being thankful that another day has arrived.

I used to think I needed to figure out who I was and what I was supposed to do with my life. I'm not sure I believe that anymore.

Who am I? What am I good at? What can I offer this world?

I'm still finding out.

What has changed is that I'm beginning to understand where my strengths lie, while also accepting the parts of myself that don't come so easily. For so long, I saw my weaknesses as evidence that there was something wrong with me. Now I'm learning that I don't have to be good at everything. I can work with who I am rather than constantly trying to become somebody I think I'm supposed to be.

I'm still learning how to understand my mind, listen to my body, find my tribe and recognise what makes me feel alive. I still make mistakes. I still lose my way. I still have days when I haven't got a bloody clue what I'm doing.

The difference is that I have better tools to find my way back.

Travel taught me freedom. Dance brought me back to my body. Therapy helped me understand my past. Yoga taught me to listen. Buddhism encouraged me to investigate my mind and meet the world with greater compassion. None of them gave me a final answer. They've simply helped me see life through a wider lens.

Perhaps the girl at the beginning of this story wasn't supposed to know what she wanted to become.

Today exists a woman who is still writing her story. I'm still learning, changing, questioning and following the things that make me feel alive. I'm trying to understand what I can offer this world and use the things I've learned along the way to offer a little more compassion, joy and love to the people and beings I meet.

Maybe I'll never completely figure out who I am.

I'm actually starting to think that's rather wonderful.

Fourteen years later, I still don't live where I was born.

I live wherever the wind takes me.