Tomorrow, I’m heading back to Belgium.
And if I’m completely honest, I have mixed feelings about it.

When I arrived in Calpe almost a month ago, part of me had quietly hoped I would find something here again.
That the sadness would soften. That I would feel like myself again. That some answers would simply come.

But they didn’t.

Some days, I miss her more deeply than when I arrived.

And yet…

When I look back on the past few weeks, I see so much more than just that.

I watched the sun rise over the Mediterranean.
I walked along places I had been dozens of times before, but that somehow felt different this time.

I bought my first drone just before leaving for Calpe.
I flew. And I made mistakes. Wrong settings. Flying too fast. Then too slowly.
This morning, I was even politely grounded by the police. 
But every day, I learned something new.

I discovered that an image becomes so much more beautiful when you slow down.
Not just with a drone. In life too.

I rode my mountainbike through the mountains. Sometimes struggling, sweating and pushing myself.
I swam in the sea. I went jet skiing. Paddleboarding. Kayaking.
I drank coffee on terraces. Enjoyed long breakfasts overlooking the sea.
I appreciated the little things I so often forget to notice at home.

I wrote. Yes. Finally.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t just writing down random thoughts.
I started my book.

A book I have no idea how to finish yet, but one I know needs to be written.

I worked on Árbol.
Not just on a house.
But on a dream.

A place where people are allowed to slow down for a while.
Where nothing is expected of them.
Where nature, peace and simplicity become important again.

And somewhere along the way, I met a drone pilot.

He taught me how to read the wind.
Not to simply take off.
To look first. To feel. To observe.

Because once you’re up in the air, you can’t change the wind.
You can only learn to understand what it’s doing.

And suddenly I realised…

Maybe that doesn’t just apply to flying.

Maybe I don’t only need to learn how to read the wind above the sea.
Maybe I also need to learn how to read the wind within myself.

Because that wind isn’t the same every day either.

Sometimes it’s calm. Sometimes everything seems quiet.

And then, without warning, the wind picks up again.

Grief.
Longing.
Doubt.

This month taught me that a beautiful place doesn’t make sadness disappear.
That you can still miss someone deeply while the sun is shining.
That you don’t have to lie to yourself and pretend that everything is fine.

But I learned something else too.

I learned that you can keep creating even when your heart hurts.
That you can learn new things even when you feel stuck.
That you haven’t completely lost yourself, even when it feels that way.

I also discovered something I had actually known for a long time.

That I’m always looking for “one more”.

One more walk.
One more sunrise.
One more drone shot.
One more adventure.

As if I’m afraid of missing something.

When what I’m really searching for is something much simpler.

Peace.
Safety.
A sense of home.

And maybe that is the biggest lesson this month has taught me.

Not that I’m “healed”.
Not that I no longer miss anyone.

But that I’m slowly learning how to carry myself.
That I don’t have to wait for the wind to die down before I can keep living.
That I’m allowed to remain standing, even when the wind blows.

Tomorrow, I’m heading back to Belgium.

Not with all the answers.

But with thousands of images.
With a book that has finally begun.
With new dreams for Árbol.
With a drone that taught me to see the world differently.

And most of all…

With the realisation that coming home may not always be about a place.

Maybe coming home is the moment you realise that, despite everything, you haven’t lost yourself.

And that is what I’m taking with me.

To Belgium.
To Árbol.
And into everything that is still to come. 🤍