I wasn’t on the guest list. No one slipped an invitation across the table. No one leaned in and said, You should come. But when Cheryl and Stacey said, “We’re going to Ireland,” something in me answered before I could even think, “I’m going too.” I don’t know what it was. It certainly wasn’t bravado. Not even certainty, because I’ve told them I was going on trips with them before and had cancelled. But this time was different. I knew that if I didn’t go, if I stayed home, I would spend the rest of my life wondering what would’ve happened if I’d gone.

The air thrummed with a million contradictions, with the smoky smell of grilled pork skewers, the tang of lemongrass, pungent diesel, and then something warm and sweet—maybe coconut or burnt sugar—in the back of my throat. Street vendors’ open-air kitchens filled the sidewalks, flames dancing up from woks. Hawkers shouted in a flurry of Thai, unperturbed by my incomprehension. A woman cracked an egg with one hand and scooped change with the other, not breaking stride. Every which way I turned, there was noise, too, honks and shouts and laughter and chanting and sizzling and wafts of music coming from nowhere. And through all the chaos, I felt an unfamiliar peace.

In the end, I chose a map of the world, small but detailed, with a tiny heart etched over Iceland. And just beneath it, the words: Not all who wander are lost. The same words that were printed across the map Jeremy had given me for my 50th birthday. The irony wasn’t lost on me. A gift from someone who didn’t really see me... now inked onto my body as a message to myself. This time, though, it wasn’t about him. Or anyone else. This was only about me.