Long before I ever boarded a plane, I traveled through stories. My grandmother’s voice, steady and soothing, was my first passport, turning pages that took me far beyond her living room in Reese, Michigan. That early love of books sparked something lasting in me: a conviction that stories are how we understand the world and our place within it. Over the years, the gatherings I created, the space I held, and the people I met along my journey were all rooted in keeping the art of storytelling alive. Because I believe in the power of shared experiences, which enhance understanding and shape what it means to be human. Years ago, while my grandmother was still alive, I set out into the world, traveling across all seven continents—not just to see, but to feel, to collect not just souvenirs, but perspective. I have returned changed and more myself than ever before, thanks to Grandma Rosie, always in my heart.

Antarctica is not just a place but an encounter with something greater than life. It is an immersion into silence so profound that it presses in on you, a vast landscape that defies understanding. The towering, glowing glaciers seemed to shine from within, their jagged edges catching the shifting light. Icebergs, massive and shaped by time, drifted in the cold waters, indifferent to how small I felt. Even in the height of summer, the continent stayed covered in ice and snow, a place where life persists against all odds. And yet, for all its harshness, I’ve never felt more at peace with myself. Never so still, so entirely in the moment. There are no words to fully capture the enormity of what I experienced, but I know I have been changed.

I kayaked through this frozen dreamscape, my orange vessel skimming the water’s surface so clear it felt like a portal into another world. I could hear the ice shift, cracking and groaning in a slow, glacial conversation. The humpback whale’s breath broke the silence, close enough that I could feel its presence before I saw it, its fluke rising in an elegant arc before vanishing beneath the surface. For five days, I lived within this untouched wilderness, moving through it as a guest, knowing that this experience was something few would ever have.

And then, there was the plunge. The moment my body hit the Arctic water, it was as if every cell erupted—an instant, intense, yet exhilarating shock. For a few seconds, my mind went blank—there was no past, no future, only the present. And as I surfaced, gasping and laughing, I felt something I never expected: complete stillness. A clarity that only happens when everything else is stripped away.

A bibliophile friend suggested I read the story of Ernest Shackleton in South before I arrived in this frozen realm. After reading, I was gobsmacked, so I made my husband watch the movie a few days later. Shackleton’s story resonated with me profoundly because I feel it mirrors my resilience, tenacity, and ability to survive in the face of impossible odds. His survivor’s story in Antarctica, together with his fearless leadership, refusal to surrender to despair, and ability to inspire and protect his crew—even in the most desolate and unforgiving conditions—speaks to something primal within me—the part that has endured, fought, and led through adversity.

I have faced profound loss, betrayal, physical hardships, and emotional isolation, yet I’ve done my best never to let these storms define me. Like Shackleton, I took responsibility for myself and those around me, often coordinating survival efforts for my family, even when I was struggling. His ability to hold onto hope and move forward without knowing what lay ahead reflects my journey of breaking generational cycles, choosing self-preservation, and confronting uncertainty with unwavering resolve despite the odds.

There’s also the element of the frozen, barren landscape, which symbolizes times in my life when I felt emotionally frozen and abandoned—cut off from warmth, safety, or clarity. But Shackleton’s journey wasn’t just about survival and getting his people home against all odds. Maybe that part of the story—the promise of return, of overcoming impossible distances, and the odds of finding a way back, especially within myself—is what touches me most deeply.

I couldn’t stop thinking of Shackleton and his men while wandering this ethereal continent, and of the world they encountered more than a century ago—a world far more savage than the one I experienced. I came here wrapped in the privilege of modern exploration: thermal layers, guided excursions, and a warm ship waiting for me at the end of each day. Shackleton had none of that. He and his men were at the mercy of Antarctica in its most ruthless form, yet he refused to break. Shackleton refused to let his men break. He held them together through sheer force of will, navigating the impossible and ensuring no life was lost. It is one thing to read about it—to understand it intellectually. But it is unfathomable to stand here, feel the bite of the wind even in the luxury of my gear, and know that he survived without any of this.

His story isn’t simply one of endurance; it’s one of leadership, toughness, and the will to carve a path forward, no matter how impossible it seems. And in that, I think I see myself, and was deeply moved.

Yet Antarctica was not the only continent that carved itself into my soul.

Africa, with its raw, ancient rhythm, taught me to listen more deeply—not just to the sounds around me, but to the pulse within. There, in the vastness of the Serengeti and the wild intimacy of conservancies like Lewa, I found a different kind of stillness—one that echoed with ancestral knowing. At Sirikoi Lodge, my oldest son helped prepare meals with local women—a type of cultural exchange that nourishes more than just hunger. And in those open lands where lionesses nursed their cubs and Tito the giraffe greeted us each morning as elephants strolled past in the distance, I saw the balance of strength and softness, protection and play. Africa awakened a reverence in me—not just for nature, but for the way traditions hold space for the sacred in everyday life.

Australia, sun-soaked and untamed, offered its own elemental wonder. Holding Macy the koala on Kangaroo Island and staying at the Southern Ocean Lodge felt like stepping into another dimension of wild luxury. In the Daintree, the world’s oldest rainforest whispered its secrets as we moved through its green embrace, reminding me of time’s unhurried passage. The Great Barrier Reef shimmered beneath us—alive, breathtaking, vanishing. My youngest son speared a reef shark, and we shared a meal with a local family, connected by curiosity and gratitude. And then there was Sydney—sitting beneath the vault of the Opera House, holiday music echoing within its soaring sails, I felt like I’d stepped into a living sculpture. Bruce Chatwin called Australia a labyrinth of pathways, each leading toward a deeper understanding of nature and its origins. I now know what he meant.

North America gave me my roots—and my reckoning. It’s where I learned how to survive, how to strive, and eventually, how to soften. From the golden sunsets along the Pacific Coastline to the southern hospitality that lingers in Beaufort and Savannah, this continent holds my earliest lessons in both grit and grace.

Up north, the hydrangeas and coastal charm of Martha’s Vineyard whisper of summer ease, while the lights of New York City and the thrill of Broadway pulse with unrelenting ambition. Alaska, with its raw and rugged wilderness, reminded me what it means to feel both small and infinite all at once.

And then there’s Michigan—my home state—a wooded wonderland where lake life set the rhythm of my summers and became a memory to my soul. Each state has its own atmosphere, its own way of seeping into my bones. From the Rockies where my childhood echoes, to the coastal roads that now feel like home, this land didn’t just raise me—it revealed me.

South America stirred something ancient in me. Cusco and its colors, Machu Picchu stood not just as marvels of human endurance but as mirrors to my internal ascent, stone by stone, step by step. It was here I learned that thin air can still carry deep meaning.

From the windswept paths of Patagonia to the thunderous awe of Iguazu Falls, this continent awakened a rhythm I didn’t know I had. In Buenos Aires, I danced with the ghosts of tango and toasted with malbec under sultry skies. The coastline of Lima offered pisco sours and a kind of calm only the Pacific can promise. Santiago fed me with avocado, steak, and the poetry of Pablo Neruda, his words greeting me like an old friend etched in stone and spirit.

I traveled deep into the Amazon, where pink dolphins surfaced like dreams and traditional medicine spoke a language older than time. And how could I forget Copacabana—its beaches, its chaos, its Carnaval—a swirl of colors, costumes, and joy that left me breathless and laughing, utterly alive.

These weren’t just trips—they were experiences that shaped me. Each place left a mark, a lesson, a moment I will carry with me forever.

Europe reminded me of elegance, history, and a sense of belonging. Wandering through Parisian streets, sipping espresso beneath terraced balconies, and standing in front of works of art that still breathe centuries later—these moments reminded me that beauty and struggle often coexist.

But how can I even begin to list all my experiences across this continent? I’ve spent countless hours here, and each place has left an imprint on me. France has completely captured my heart—from the elegance of Paris to the lavender fields of Provence, from the vineyards of Burgundy and Bordeaux to the champagne sparkle of Épernay and the aristocratic charm of Chantilly. Style, food, wine—yes, I’m smitten.

England drew me into its historic past, with Cambridge being a favorite spot, where church bells rang as I walked the academic streets and enjoyed high tea at the Ivy. Ireland felt like home—my roots in Limerick, my joy found in Dingle with its jigs and jugs of Baileys. Scotland offered its hearty hospitality with haggis, neeps, and tatties, while Austria and Switzerland provided the kind of beauty that makes you believe in music and mountains. Munich was all about beer steins and warm pretzels, with celebration in every bite.

The spice market in Istanbul captivated my senses, and the apple tea was a quiet revelation. And Budapest—remembered as the place where I sat in an opera house with my sons and husband, marveling at a world that somehow felt like mine.

Each country I’ve visited has woven itself into the fabric of who I am. I still pinch myself while riding the Eurostar, Belgian chocolate in hand, dreaming of the yellow waffle truck in Brussels. Europe hasn’t just shaped me—it continues to call me back, whispering in a thousand accents that I belong.

Asia drew me into a contrast—temples beside skyscrapers, incense trailing behind bullet trains. In its rituals and rapid pace, I found tranquility in paradox. Whether walking the ancient Silk Road or sipping tea in a quiet courtyard, Asia reminded me to stay still, even as the world spins quickly.

The Great Wall of China is a marvel not to be missed—avoid the days of tomb-sweeping when the traffic rivals the crowds. Cambodia gave me a moment I’ll never forget: a man I call the “Happy Man” emerged from the rice fields, soaked and smiling, handing me a bouquet of lotus stems with a joy so pure it left an imprint on my heart. The people of Cambodia are some of the kindest I’ve ever met.

Thailand was a feast of sensations—bustling streets, fragrant food stalls, and unmatched generosity. It was there that I had the best massage of my life, delivered with care and precision that felt more like healing than luxury.

Japan left me in awe. Every detail—every gesture—is deliberate. My own sense of order and formality felt amateur compared to their graceful discipline. Walking the Philosopher’s Path in Kyoto, surrounded by cherry blossoms, felt like entering a dream. A sober visit to Hiroshima provided a quiet yet powerful recognition of the toll of conflict—and the strength of peace.

South Korea captivated me with its vibrancy, though I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling of being close to the North while standing in the tunnels. Still, the people were friendly, and the culture fascinating.

Malaysia offered yet another layer—lush, untamed beauty and gentle surprises. “Hellman” has my heart, and I can still see the glowing dance of fireflies in the mangroves—a moment of magic I hope to relive again.

There are too many places to name, too many moments to recount. But what I carry most from Asia embodies the quiet depth of cultural intelligence, the rhythm of rituals, and the daily reminder that we are all bound by stories, struggle, and a search for meaning. Asia didn’t just show me the world—it softened and sharpened me all at once.

Sometimes, I hesitate to share my experiences. A part of me worries it might sound like bragging, as if traveling is a luxury beyond conversation. But I’ve realized that others like me exist—people drawn to the world’s vastness and eager for exploration. They might not always be in my close circle, but they are there. I’ve learned to openly embrace my wanderlust, understanding that my stories are not just about places, but about moments that’ve shaped me in ways that words cannot fully express.

Standing on all seven continents has been more than just a journey—it’s been a transformation. Every place I’ve visited has left a lasting impression, changing how I view the world and, more importantly, how I perceive myself. Travel, with all its surprises, has been more rewarding than I ever expected. The memories are embedded in my soul; the stories are endless, and the lessons are priceless. Each one shaped a part of me. But it was Antarctica that genuinely made me whole.