I’ve been thinking of this day for a long time, the day I leave Ghana to fly home. And now that day is today. It’s not that I’ve been miserable here, clearly that isn’t true, and I wouldn’t want to change anything about my stay and risk losing the valuable experiences I had, good and bad. I think they’re both important. But I do want to be as real as I can and not only spotlight the amazing moments I’ve had, because even with them, this trip was not easy. I got pretty lonely sometimes. While I did meet so many incredible people, so many new friends I’ll always remember, they weren’t there most of the time. Most of the time it was just me, and I had to learn to be ok with that. Which in itself is probably the most valuable thing to take home; as my mom always says, “being your own best friend.” I think I’ve done pretty well in learning that lesson, yet unfortunately, when you’re your own best friend, there’s nobody new to share in the amazement at all the things you’re doing, the places you’re seeing. That’s where this blog has come in, to give me a way to not only share some of my wonder but also to help me process everything, to work through my experiences in a different way and get to know them even more intimately. It’s allowed me to explore writing for pleasure (which I’ve never done much before), awarded me the freedom to dip into a more expressive style, or to connect myself with my thoughts and feelings on an candidly open level. Yet even this blog came with a sort of pressure; I wanted to share absolutely everything about certain experiences, every detail, every opinion, because at those moments, I truly couldn’t believe I was there living it. Yet it is impossible to express both my feelings and the places and people I’ve met to the extent they’ve been impressed on me; that’s another thing I’ve learned to be ok with, that only I am ever going to truly understand what this experience has been like. And I actually like it that way now…a little secret between me and my own best friend.

If I’ve learned anything else here, it’s the enormous influence of perspective. It’s a weird thing, perspective…conscious or unconscious of it, it’s always there, unwaveringly pinned to every thought yet fluid through it all. It can breed prejudice or tolerance, blame or forgiveness, ignorance or understanding. And that’s the best part: you own your perspective. You are the potter at the wheel, foot on the peddle, hands on the clay that can either stay a greasy gray lump or be sculpted into anything you want. I’ve used this as much as I could, to erase any harsh assumption from my mind and to diminish my own struggles back into their place. The people that treat me not-so-well, who make careless comments based on a snap judgement from my appearance, who intrude on my privacy as a complete stranger? Maybe these people don’t know any better, don’t know the reach of their behavior’s effect on a young woman traveling alone. Maybe they grew up on the streets, were never taught that their actions are inappropriate or abusive (unfortunately, that is a very real possibility here). While it doesn’t excuse anything, having at least the potential of an explanation for their behavior helps me move on. It’s funny now, peeking back at how I felt when I first arrived, seeing how much my whole outlook has changed. This happens often, almost involuntarily, as I’m walking down the road in the growing dusk; I can transport back to myself 11 weeks ago, walking down the same road for the first time, seeing everything brand new around me, forming the familiarities of today. I was scared and overwhelmed, thinking three months is a very long time. And it is, but look where I am now. Standing at the end of the street and admiring how far I’ve come, seeing the spots where I stumbled and the places I soared.

People always told me that this trip would go by before I knew it, and when the time came, I would be sad to leave. While I knew this would probably be true, it was almost impossible to believe that in the beginning of March, and even most of April. The distance definitely seems shorter at the finish line, the pain of the run reduced to just a shadow, but I don’t know that I would want to continue on just yet. I cannot express the unbelievable experience I’ve had here, and now that I’m at the end, I wouldn’t change anything. But it’s time to go home, and I’m ok with that. More than ok, actually. Which is how I imagined I’d feel today.

Eight days ago, I was coming back from a day in another part of the city, an hour and a half commute from where I’m staying. I was sitting on a trotro, in the middle seat on the middle bench, in the middle lane of the traffic that comes along with the golden light of 5 o’clock. Completely surrounded by people, by strangers, and feeling absolutely at peace. I could almost zoom out and see myself from a bird’s eye view, a little dot floating in an ocean of unknown. It was a feeling of independence, anonymity, freedom; a strange feeling but one that felt very right. In that moment, I was proud of myself, where I’ve been and what I’ve overcome. It’s like the rush of power you get from pushing yourself hard to the end of a race, in pain but in control, having the authority to tell your body to keep going, and then to finally slow to rest. That’s the important piece: having power over yourself, and only yourself. Recognizing that you can’t change anything else around you, and having the courage to instead look within. It’s a feeling of clarity, of strength, of peace radiating from the inside out. It’s a good place to be.