Barcelona, Europe, Life, Popular, Travel, WanderLOST & Found

WanderLOST & FOUND: Barcelona/Breath

23 April

In the 13 months since I left the States, I’ve lived in Barcelona, South Korea, Barbados, and now Bangkok. Each place has profoundly shaped me, my thoughts, my emotions, and ultimately, my outlook on life. This blog, intended to be an unfiltered exploration of my growth (or sometimes, lack thereof… I’m looking at you, Barbados), will capture the moments of clarity, confusion, and everything in between. This post marks the first in the WanderLOST & Found series.

FOUND: My Breath

The faint scent of mold drifted from the walls surrounding the poorly sealed bathroom that took up nearly half the space in my damp, dimly lit apartment. Morning light crept through the gap in the worn, crushed velvet curtains, a hazy beam filtered through the towering air conditioner that swallowed the entire balcony, now long since converted to a very active pigeon breeding ground. It cast a muted glow across the room, the kind of fractured light that only exists in neighborhoods like El Born, where centuries-old buildings are packed tightly onto narrow cobblestone streets and alleyways, stretching toward a perpetually overcast sky, and encapsulated by a silence that never lingers for long.

When I started this journey, I was looking for an escape from everything except motherhood. I was in Dallas, driving through the sprawling suburbs of Frisco or Prosper or Celina, I can’t remember which. You know, one of those picture-perfect neighborhoods with huge homes, perfectly manicured lawns, wide driveways, Frenchies in every yard, and way too many Teslas, Raptors and G-Wagons to count. A few months earlier, I’d picked up delivering food as a side hustle. Not because I was in desperate need of money (at least not at that moment), as I was still working full-time at a tech startup and making more than I ever had before, but because I could see the writing on the proverbial wall, and even if others in the company couldn’t, I knew everything I worked towards over the last twenty years was officially on life support.

One of the many narrow, maze-like alleyways I traveled every day in El Born…

My soul dog Mia left me in July 2023… I leave a little bit of her in every ocean I visit so she’s always around me…

I just dropped off a delivery and pulled over in the Baby Rover I had emotionally purchased a few months previously, waiting for the monotonous ping that would ultimately usher me to my next destination. I was staring through my windshield, eyes focused on nothing in particular, and lost in my standard cycle of recurring thoughts: a mixture of frustration for still living paycheck-to-paycheck, what I now know was unwarranted embarrassment for working yet another entry-level job even after decades of hard work and striving for better, and disappointment in the ever-looping big success/big failure cycle that seemed to maintain a death grip on my life. The sun was setting, casting its warm, soft orange light over everything it touched. It was the kind of calm moment that makes you believe, if even for a second, that maybe it’s all finally going to work out.

I was making good money (great money, actually), but it wasn’t enough. The weight of two decades of debt, stacked up from surviving single motherhood without any help or a financial blueprint, was outpacing my long-established bad habits and best efforts to break them. I had a constant pressure on my chest, like a vacuum sucking a little more air out each day, and I knew that eventually, I wouldn’t be able to breathe at all. I was drowning, as I had been for the better part of two decades, and as I sat there, on that warm, mid-January evening in the Dallas suburbs, watching the sun set on yet another day of unfulfilled promises and dreams, the haunting reality crept into my always preoccupied mind: nothing changes unless something changes.

Park Adventures just in time for a Siesta…

Barceloneta Beach… full of sunshine, pebbles, and naked bodies…

I’ve had that thought before, way too many times to count, but on this day, at this time, it hit so differently. In the weeks following, I moved my son from our shared three-bedroom apartment in Frisco, to a one-bedroom for him and our furbabies, packed everything I didn’t immediately need into storage, canceled as many bills, subscriptions, and memberships as I could, Googled beaches in Spain to practice the little bit of español I knew, and booked a damp, dimly lit Airbnb in the heart of Barcelona.

I arrived in Barcelona after fourteen days in the UK, a birthday trip booked the previous year that was supposed to last three weeks, and see me back in Texas, and back to the monotony, immediately after. Instead, I headed to the Catalonia Coast after a week in Whitechapel, a week in Manchester and Wrexham, and a few more days tucked away in the hills on the outskirts of the city. When I finally made my way to the apartment I booked before leaving the States, the stress of the months and years previous seemed to simply melt away as the taxi drove closer and closer to the quaint little square, teeming with restaurants, shops, and LIFE, that would become my pseudo front yard for the next two months.

But fate tends to step in the moment we get too comfortable with the idea that we’re going to undo decades of habits and damage in a matter of days, and as if in cue, reality hit as soon as my feet touched the brownish-gray cobblestoned sidewalk. I stepped out of the Uber, suitcases and bags in tow, looking like the textbook version of every token American tourist, clumsily navigating through a maze of criss-crossing alleyways and poorly marked doors, desperately trying to locate my new home.

"As the days passed, I shed weight, both literally and figuratively, while enjoying strong drinks, amazing food, mango gelato, and polarizing conversation about the similarities and differences between Catalonia and the States, specifically the topics politics, immigration and the quality of life. "

Once I finally did find the right door, I couldn’t get into the building or in contact with the host, and for over an hour, I stood by the heavily padlocked door waiting for anyone to enter or leave, sweating in equal parts nerves and irritation. The soundtrack of the neighboring bar, where tourists and locals alike shared laughter, revelry, and alcohol, enveloped me, seemingly in an universal effort to drown out the negative thoughts and frustration brewing internally, as the sun dipped behind the historic building housing what was to become a nightly ritual.

When I finally got in the building, I hauled my oversized, over-packed suitcases up and down the narrow staircase inside, searching for the next anonymous door that was supposed to mark the entrance to my new life. After waiting another 20ish minutes for it to be unlocked remotely, I stumbled into my dark, yet undeniably Spanish apartment, and made my way down the back hall to the white door with a giant black “4” decal in the upper right corner, ready to plop down on a mattress that was almost certainly going to be too hard or too soft, before unpacking and heading back out to see as much of the neighborhood as I could before the sun set completely… only to find a broken door handle barring access to my bedroom and the tiniest scrap of peace I’d been chasing all day.

The universe, it seemed, had jokes… mocking me with confusing alleyways, locked doors, and a busted doorknob while simultaneously blocking the fresh start I felt so clearly entitled to.

My last night in Barcelona consisted of Indian food, melting gelato, and selfies with Sara

One day I will see a real Banksy in the wild… it is a bucket list item.

It took almost a month for life in Barcelona to feel even remotely normal. The heavy haze I’d carried with me from the last months in the States and since arriving in Europe, felt eerily akin to what I imagine it’s like coming off an addiction: disorienting, raw, and relentlessly present. It hung heavy, refusing to leave my side, while the tightness in my chest and shortness of breath I had grown accustomed to simultaneously tightened its grip.

I was tired, unmotivated, and mostly content to stay tucked away in my room for days on end, with only the pigeons for company, the bar next door for noise, and the NBA Playoffs on my iPad for connection. I hadn’t even made it to the gym, something that felt so far removed from the person I’d become over the three years previously, getting back into my regular workouts and routines, things that had come so easily before, felt like learning a new language.

Ironic, really… I’d come to Barcelona thinking I’d be re-learning Spanish, not myself.

Inside the Pablo Picasso Museum in El Born…

Work… Gym… Repeat… The Mantra started in Barcelona.

But as the April days turned to May nights, that invisible weight slowly lifted, and I felt the itch to start exploring and getting back to my gym routine. I reached out to my sister’s friend, Sara, whom she met years earlier on The Camino, and found a friend of my own who was more than welcoming and excited to show me all her favorite shops, restaurants, and attractions. As the days passed, I shed weight, both literally and figuratively, while enjoying strong drinks, amazing food, mango gelato, and polarizing conversations about the similarities and differences between Catalonia and the States, specifically the topics of politics, immigration and the quality of life.

Days spent wandering the local parks, sitting on the pebblestone beach, and soaking in the history, culture, and art of the countless museums that call El Born home led to thoughts of jumping on a train to spend the weekend in Paris, spontaneous detours through the vineyards of Bordeaux, and grand plans of returning to Barcelona with my dad for the start of the 2026 Tour de France. With every thought, every step, every adventure, even those yet unrealized, the grip loosened, and my breath returned. The breathless days and sleepless nights became fewer and fewer, and through those simple, day-to-day moments of being truly present, it felt like I lived more in that final month in Barcelona than I had in the last decade.

For many people, the impulsiveness that prompted me to leave the States could be the kiss of death. Moving forward on major, life-changing decisions, without any forethought or planning is almost always certain to spell disaster. But for all my impulsiveness and inability to focus on the details, one thing I’ve never been able to do, well, never allowed myself to do, is to stay STUCK. If something isn’t working for me, or my life, or my finances, no matter how hard it is to remove myself or change course, no matter how much time, energy or emotion I’ve invested, no matter how hurt I am or will be by change, I refuse to stay in what doesn’t work.

Maybe it stems from my long-term love affair with basketball, but if there’s one thing I do have in this crazy, messed-up world, it’s a fucking unstoppable pivot foot. And that pivot, as chaotic, imperfect, and impulsive as it is, landed me in the middle of El Born, where somehow, through the mold, the melting gelato, the multiplying pigeons, the broken door handles and broken routines, Barcelona gave me space to exhale. Not all at once, but little by little, breath by breath, I found air again. And by the time I packed my bags into an Uber at the corner of that quaint little cobblestoned square that had been my home, and headed to the airport to board my flight to South Korea, I wasn’t just surviving… I was finally living.