It was 3 am New Year’s Day, and I was in a rental car, threading my way to the airport through party hoppers and fireworks that flared up on either side of the otherwise dark highway. I was leaving the States for Colombia to live abroad for an indeterminate amount of time, with two checked bags, my instruments, a computer bag—all other worldly possessions either donated or packed away in a 10x10 storage unit in the city I was leaving. It had been my dream to travel fully nomadic like this since forming my online music lessons studio four years earlier, but this was my first chance to live abroad and see what I would see.

It was already night when I landed, but when I woke up in the pueblo of Santa Elena, I was greeted by the most idyllic village anyone could hope for. There had been so much chaos and logistics leading up to the day of my travel, and the tranquility I found in Santa Elena was exactly what my soul needed to settle again. There were no other tourists, just mountainous vistas that reminded me of Switzerland and the Sound of Music. Flowers were the famed import of the pueblo, and they kept all of Colombia in supply. I was staying in a little mountain chalet warmed by a fire in the fireplace, filled with lowlights and stucco walls and skylights. There were elephant ear plants outside my back door big enough to curl up and fall asleep on. I often felt as if I had landed a role in a real-life production of Alice in Wonderland.

Life moved slowly in Santa Elena. It was a 45-minute walk to the small market and little garden cafes without internet. There was a relaxed mentality that was a blessing to be in, so different from the continual hustle of my home country. I loved showing my students the new scenes and birdsong. Invariably, during lessons, a parrot of some variety would sit beside the window and serenade us, and butterflies with wings that changed colors with the light would flutter by. Besides my classes with students, I had nowhere to be. There were often plans I tried to make in the city that were contingent on being able to catch a taxi, and half of my plans didn’t work out, at least when I initially planned them, because no taxis came through. I learned quickly that most plans can fall through just fine, especially when you are eating arepas in the sun with beautiful views on every side and nature as far as the eye can see. It made me more patient, especially when I finally accepted that my inability to make my plans happen was not a problem.

My move over the mountains into Medellin a month later was an intense change of pace. I loved both, but I was in the city to dance bachata, and dance I did, about four days a week. Medellin is a jungle first and a city second, and most of the trees tower next to or above the high-rise buildings that fill the valley and mountainsides. Birdsong is usually louder than traffic, and you’re never far from a spectacular view or an avenue populated by giant arboles leaning towards each other to shade the entire city blocks. I would be surprised if two such cities existed in the world. The vibe was electric, welcoming, and open, and I could have spent many years in that city and plan to in the future. I made friends there from all over the world. The city was well-known as a hub for global nomads, and we have continued to follow each others’ lives and adventures and plan to meet up again somewhere someday.

It broke my heart to leave in mid-March in a way that surprised me. I was consoled by flying back to San Francisco to see all my music students at our Spring Showcase I was throwing for my studio in Marin County. Few things fill me with more joy than seeing my students showcase their hard work. I was still glowing with pride when I got on a plane a few hours after the recital, filled with good vibes and well-wishes, bound for Taiwan to explore the island my father is from for the first time.

I spent the next three months in Taiwan, trying new foods and taking trains and the high-speed rail all over the island to historical centers and temples and generally feeling like I was sticking out like a sore thumb. I arrived a week before a massive 7.6 magnitude earthquake struck the island. Over a thousand aftershocks followed in the following months, and over 250 major quakes rocked the island. We were all continually off balance, much like living on a boat. It was so sweet to have my students checking up on me, and a few of them experienced earthquakes and monsoons with me during their lesson, which they found to be very exciting.

It took me a while to find where I fit, and it wasn’t until I found my way to the wild, off-grid places on the island that I began to find center again and what I was looking for in the country. It was my first time seeing mountains that were true sharp triangles like how I drew them as a child, ridges upon ridges as far as you could see, only ending where they met the sea. These wilds of Taiwan were where I found the most incredible sense of home. My ancestors are buried in that ground, and I stopped feeling like an outsider. At one point, I was wandering alone through a mountain pass near the coast, looking for a bus that would take me to the cliffs of Dragon Cove, and there, in the middle of the jungle, slightly lost, I felt a sudden sense of rootedness and home that nearly took my breath away.

At the very end of my 90 days, I packed up and flew back to San Francisco to see all my students again and throw a “welcome to summer” showcase. I left Taiwan at 4:50pm, June 6th, and stepped off the plane in San Francisco nearly 15 hours later at 4:51pm, June 6th. I was more than a little bleary-eyed, but I can tell you that everyone was amazing at the recital the following day—half the studio sang, two young composers debuted pieces, and I teared up multiple times. It was incredible to see everyone. My students are some of the best and brightest humans in the world, and they hold such a huge part of my heart that it always feels like coming home to see them.

The following day (yes, I regret this), I jumped on a plane to Guatemala. For the next three weeks, I lived on the waters of Lake Atitlan, surrounded by volcanoes, learning about natural medicines and Mayan beliefs, experiencing beautiful cacao ceremonies with a kind shaman, family dinners with new friends at a lovely hotel, and the best handmade tortillas of my life from street vendors. Unfortunately, I had to cut that trip short because the rainy season hit, and I got exposed to mold in my room and got quite sick. Guatemala is a country where if you need to go to the hospital to have your leg amputated, they will send you to the store first to purchase a saw for the surgery (I wish that were a joke) and it wasn’t a place I wanted to risk getting sicker. Three days after the fever cleared, I blearily stumbled onto a plane to jump to Mexico for a drier clime.

Southern Mexico has been the soft landing I needed to recover. I’m happily soaking in the colorful streets, enjoying the friendly culture, and eating some of the most delicious and nourishing food I’ve ever had.

The most surprising piece of these past 8 months abroad is how safe I’ve felt as a solo female traveler and how hospitable and kind people have been at every turn. There is an instant camaraderie in nomadic culture between people from all over the world and the locals, and the friendships forged in this life are strong and fast. People are not their governments, and, unfortunately, so much of what makes the news is related to the actions of governments that don’t accurately reflect the hearts or desires of the people within the country (my own country included in this). Every country I’ve been lucky enough to visit in my life has been full of people who were open-hearted and welcoming and wanted to share what they loved about their country and culture, so maybe we could love it together. And there is SO much to love at every turn…

That in itself has been worth traveling the world to discover.