Journal of Becoming: Entry #6—Reawakening What Was Dormant
Belonging, connection, and remembering
It has been a month since I returned from my trip to Ireland. In that time, I have quickly reverted to dormancy—zero motivation or energy to do much more than read books and couch rot. Even the sun and 65-degree weather isn’t enough to lift me out of this stagnant state, which is especially jarring after weeks of feeling wide awake and alive.
Post travel blues? Or something deeper?
In Ireland, I remembered what belonging and connection feel like. There was an immediate sense of familiarity—chatting to my seatmate on the train, the ease of making a friend-for-the-day, strangers helping strangers, people thanking the bus driver when they got on and off. The little things that I was used to in the U.S. and other countries where I’ve lived that I have been missing living in Japan.
We’re constantly reminded to enjoy the little things in life, that they’re what bring us the most joy.
But they’re not just little things, are they?
They’re the octogenarian Catholic priest who regales you with tales of his 55-year ministry in Nigeria, the elderly dairy farmer desiring a bit of company on the bus ride to visit his wife in hospice, the slightly inebriated woman at the pub eager to discuss global politics with a visitor from across the pond, the local you join forces with one evening to find the owners of a lost pup.
These moments of genuine connection with humanity that I experienced during those weeks in Ireland are no small thing—they foster a sense of belonging. They awakened the social butterfly in me, the person who doesn’t need a reason or good weather to go outside and enjoy a walk in the park or a chat with the barista.
And, almost instantly upon returning to Japan, that version of me went quiet again.
The level of connection and belonging I had in Ireland is something I haven’t felt since I lived in Indonesia, and without it, joy feels like a distant memory.
Belonging isn’t always found in the place you grew up or the family you were born into, but in a place that wakes up something dormant. It’s a feeling that arrives, settles into your bones, and whispers: you’re allowed to exhale here.
I’d been waiting to exhale for over four years.
Ireland and its people not only gifted me a sense of belonging and connection, but journeying across the Emerald Isle reignited my spark that had been thoroughly snuffed out. It resuscitated my brave, curious, wanderlusting heart.
If you’ve been here awhile, you know that I am standing on the edge of a life reinvention: preparing to move back to the U.S. Knowing this solo trip to Ireland will probably be my last for a long while, I fear laying to rest what has been reawakened in me.
I fear losing my adventurous spirit.
In my YouTube Recap (YouTube’s spin on Spotify’s “Wrapped”), I discovered the content I consumed most this year was cozy home decorating inspiration followed by travel vlogs in second place.
When the hell did that switch occur?
For most of my adult life, home was simply where I slept and occasionally fixed myself a girl dinner. I was the furthest thing from a homebody. Now, apparently, I prefer watching paint dry to intrepid travelers hot-air-ballooning over Cappadocia or backpackers traversing the Amazon.
I recently read a Substack essay by The Midlife Traveler in which the writer talks about the fear of going back to a place where you once felt so alive. The following quote really stood out to me:
Did I imagine it all?
Was I really THAT happy?
That’s what I kept asking myself on the plane back to Tangier.
Underneath was something I didn’t want to admit:
What if I’m no longer the woman who does this?
And a quieter voice, “What if you can’t get that version of yourself back?”
I had this same feeling going back to Bali for a visit after having lived some of the best years of my life there. I felt it again when I went on a two-month solo backpacking trip around Europe this past spring. Had I really been that happy living on the island? Was I still the kind of woman who gallivants on her own across multiple countries where she doesn’t speak the language?
Answer: Absofreakinlutely.
But that certainty doesn’t erase the quieter fear humming underneath.
After having these dormant parts of me reawakened on this recent trip, I fear the answer to that last question:
What if I can’t get that version of myself back?
What if, once I move back to the U.S. and get caught up once again in the daily grind, I lose her? What if the practical parts of adulthood—money, schedules, responsibilities—slowly edge her out?
Or maybe even scarier:
What if I stop wanting the things that used to make me feel most alive? What if the woman who once booked plane tickets on a whim becomes the woman who stays home comparing paint swatches?
The solo travel I have done this year has been like following breadcrumbs back to who I once was, gathering up lost pieces of myself in train stations, airports, coastal towns, conversations with strangers, and unexpected moments of wonder and serendipity.
What if, in this reinvention, those breadcrumbs get blown away and I don’t recognize the person I become?
I’ve experienced this sort of self-estrangement in the past. Oddly enough, each time I felt this I happened to be in the suburbs folding some man’s laundry, and each time I would eventually end up despondent on the bathroom floor saying prayers and making promises.
I’m a firm believer that the promises we make to ourselves on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night are the most sacred.
Haven’t many of us, especially women, had a bathroom floor moment? I remember in Eat, Pray, Love where Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about hearing the voice of God for the first time while crying on her bathroom floor at night begging for an answer about what to do with her life. That scene resonated with me on a soul level.
So, standing between chapters, I am promising myself that as I reinvent, rebuild, and redefine my life, I won’t lose my essence—that no matter what shape my new life takes, I won’t become unrecognizable to myself.
And I’m on the bathroom floor, praying for answers to the following questions:
What does reinvention look like when you’re unsure what you’re willing to let go of?
What does rebuilding look like with no blueprint?
What does redefining look like when you’re afraid the next chapter might be smaller, narrower, or less adventurous?
Are you there, God? It’s me, Morgan.
Your essence is too important for the world to allow it to be extinguished. There will always be people out there keeping it going through whispers and reminders (myself included!)
And to put it in baking terms... rather like a cake, no matter how faint the essence flavour is, it changes the entire finished product into something glorious and delectable which people adore - even if they can't quite work out what it exactly is they're experiencing.