Inner and outer travels are the same for me—inevitably something breaks open.

For me, it's not the suitcase zipper, it's the next layer of the shell I may have been living in before. The one that fits too tightly around who I was before I moved. And it can be so subtle.

The body knows before the mind catches up.

It hums: we are changing again.

The airport (physically and metaphorically) becomes a portal. The air in a new place carries a different voltage. I feel it in my eyes, my breath, my posture rearranges. I meet myself between worlds—midair, unmasked, alive.

When I travel, the avatar of staying small or masking to people please (the imaginary people) slips.

I remember, I belong to myself, to God, to us all. Home is inside, and I know it.

Because when the landscape (inner or outer) changes, if we choose to embody our authentic self, the body must respond. It's the law.

The rhythm shifts. The nervous system reorients.

And suddenly the parts of me, of us, that were even a little asleep back "home"—they wake up roaring.

A new sun hits my skin and something primal remembers: I belong everywhere I am.

Journeys strip us, when we choose. They make us open—in a truer way. God has more space to move through us. If we choose, we stop performing, stop narrating, stop trying to be the "version" that makes sense. That others understand. That doesn't push any buttons, make any waves. We can choose to start listening. Our bones take on the dialect of the landscape.

Inner and outer travel, when done with intention, with embodiment, without the avatar that keeps us in a fixed state, is holy. It's embodiment in motion.

It's prayer in motion.

It's the kind of transformation that doesn't ask for permission. It is.

Each place I travel internally and in the world remakes me. Each journey reorients me deeper into my center and truth, and into the mystery—rearranged, more honest, more lit from within.

To create more space for more of you, and less space for what is not, is to remember the truth of being alive:

That we can hold all our selves—the ones we've been, the ones we're still becoming—and always be home, with Hashem.