The Places We Carry

(Credit: Photo by Dennis Gecaj/Unsplash)

It’s the night before we leave for Germany. The bags are mostly packed. The last laundry load hums in the dryer. My daughter’s travel snacks are portioned into tiny containers she’ll spill halfway across the Atlantic. She’s asleep. And I’m sitting in the quiet with that particular kind of stillness that only comes right before a long journey. A stillness full of motion.

This isn’t our first time flying back. But each time feels slightly different. Not just because she’s older now, but because I’ve come to understand that going home feels like carrying rather than returning at this point.

Living Between Places

I left Düsseldorf at nineteen. First Berlin, where I spent my undergrad years chasing deadlines and cheap concerts. Then Vancouver. I lived there five years, long enough to forget where the good bakeries are back home, but not long enough to stop missing real bread.

And then, three years ago, Ottawa. That’s where something shifted. Life became quieter, more intentional. I found routines I wanted to keep, friendships that felt easy, and people who saw me. For the first time in a long time, I felt gently rooted.

Why We’re Going Back

We’re flying to Germany so my daughter can see her grandparents. So she can listen to people speak the language I sang her lullabies in, even though her most of her daily words are in English and French.

But really, we’re going so she knows that she comes from something. Not because I need her to “be more German.”, but identity grows stronger when it’s connected to memory. And I want her to have those memories. I want her to taste the food and smell the streets after rain.

She’s still small, but the stories we tell her now will shape what she believes she’s part of. And I want her to think she belongs in more than one place.

Travel, Privilege, and Intention

I am aware that not everyone has the opportunity to travel like this. Crossing oceans isn’t cheap and not every passport opens doors. I don’t take it for granted. But part of being grateful is using the opportunity with intention.

We travel so she understands the world is layered. That there isn’t just one way to live, love, eat, work, or speak. That people move, and change, and sometimes start over far from where they began, and that this isn’t a failure, but a fact of being human. I want her to see that it’s possible to belong in many places, as long as you show up, listen, and learn how to carry them with care.

I don’t know what she’ll remember from this trip. Maybe the smell of Oma’s perfume, or the taste of a proper Franzbrötchen. Maybe the way the doors are heavier in old houses, or how her Uroma still goes for a swim every day at the ripe age of 88.

What We Pass On

I’ve come to believe that moving to another country is one of the bravest things a person can do. It asks you to rebuild everything from scratch: routines, friendships, even the words you reach for when you’re tired. It teaches you to live without autopilot. To be both beginner and adult at once.

That’s what I want her to understand. That starting over is not a weakness. It’s a strength. And the people who do it, whether by choice or circumstance, carry a kind of courage you can’t always see from the outside.

If she learns anything from these trips, I hope it’s this: That roots can be planted more than once.