The Shape of Elsewhere

It is a beautiful thing to be present, to stand on the edge of something unfamiliar and feel both hesitation and the pull to step forward. To listen to the quiet voice inside that says, Go on, now. Be brave.

The world is vast, yet at times it feels small, folded into the corners of our lives in ways we don’t always recognise. Growing up across three different countries, and now living in France, I have learned to trust uncertainty. Or at the very least, to believe that in time, the unfamiliar becomes familiar. That a new street, a new rhythm, a new place to buy bread, or a new language spoken back to you will slowly stitch itself into something that feels like home.

But change does not always come in the form of great departures. Sometimes, it is simply about the courage to say something out loud. To admit what you feel. To sit in the discomfort of unspoken things, to let go of chapters that no longer nourish you, to leave a love that is not meant for you. To trim the rose garden so that new petals have the space to bloom.

And in those moments, you may not feel brave. But when the weight lifts, when you see yourself on the other side, you realise you were braver than you thought. Some version of you—whether it is the child in you sighing in relief, thinking I’m glad we finally did that, or the older version of yourself, looking back from some distant future, knowing it had to be done to get to the good stuff—is grateful for it.

I am only twenty-one, but already I look back at my nineteen-year-old self, hiking through the south of Iceland alone, and think: That was kind of wild. But so was sitting down in a salon for a small trim and walking out with a short, bright-pink pixie cut. Sometimes, change is sweeping, extraordinary. And sometimes, it is a quiet choice. But it is always ours to make.

Jorge Luis Borges had said that “Time is the substance of which I am made. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which mangles me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire."

There is something unique about doing something again for the first time. When you move somewhere new, when you travel, when you fall in love—no two experiences are ever the same. You can cross the same ocean, land in the same city, walk down the same street, and yet, you are not the same as the last time you were there.

This time, I have not been counting the days or holding onto expectations. I have simply let things unfold, moment by moment. I think that is the gift of change—it slows time in a way that makes even the smallest things feel meaningful. Narrating your life in a different language, folding your laundry and naming each colour, ordering coffee in imperfect sentences—these tiny acts become romantic in their own way.

And in this moment, I am content. There is hesitation, there is the feeling of stepping outside the familiar, but mostly, there is choice. And in that choice, there is power. Even if something goes wrong, I trust myself to handle it. That’s what growth is—taking accountability, owning your steps, learning as you go.

No one can tell you to leave home, to move somewhere new, to go on an adventure. You can talk about it with friends and family, but in the end, the moment you step onto that plane or train or set your bags down in a new city, it is you who must decide. And that is what makes it so exhilarating.

I think many hesitate to chase their dreams because they know they will have to do it alone. But isn’t that all the more reason to go? Because you have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself. Because even when you are far from everything you know, there is always something—or someone—waiting to connect with you. Whether it’s a kind stranger, a new friend, a familiar song playing from a café window.

That’s the difference between dreaming and doing—the bittersweet knowledge that while others may imagine it, only you will truly know it. And you won’t always be able to explain it, not in a way that captures everything exactly as it is. You will try, but some things are meant only to be felt.

At first, you feel like an outsider, still keeping time with the clock at home. Then, slowly, the unfamiliar begins to settle into your bones. You start recognising faces at the market. You pick up the rhythm of the streets, the hum of a new language. Even simple things—buying groceries, taking a walk—become small triumphs. And then one day, without realising it, you stop feeling like an outsider at all.

Living somewhere new is not the same as traveling—it is slower, more intimate. You empty your suitcase, fill the wardrobe, memorise the key to the front door. It is a place that becomes yours, even if just for a while. And while there are moments of longing—missing a pet, a friend, the comfort of something familiar—there are also moments of joy. A sunset that takes your breath away. The sound of laughter in a new friendship. A song that follows you from one life to another.

People take care of each other, even in small ways. A neighbour who nods good morning. A barista who remembers your order. A stranger who helps with directions. There are moments when you look around and wonder, Have these people always been here? And in those moments, you realise that you were never truly lost.

Because home is not one place. It is not a singular address or a static feeling. It is something we carry within us, something we find in the faces of people we love, in the echo of their laughter. And it is something we discover again and again in new corners of the world.

Perhaps home is not a place, but a feeling. For me, home is Cape Town, standing on Bloubergstrand with the mountain rising in the distance. It is my five-year-old self running through a sunlit garden. But it is also the red terracotta tiles in the kitchen upstairs, the soft murmur of the French language, the glittering Eiffel Tower seen from the train platform.

Somehow, in the movement between places, we learn that home is not about where we are, but what we carry within us. And the best part is, we don’t always get to choose what—or who—becomes home. That is part of the adventure.

So I trust this process. This choice. This adventure. And most of all, myself.

One month down, and who knows how many more to go. But I am taking in every second of it.

Travel far enough, you meet yourself. And I think I am following some part of myself that keeps running ahead, into the unknown. But every so often, she turns back and calls to me—Look around. This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you seek is seeking you. There is no rush. What is meant for you will find you.