The end of an era?

Late nights followed by early mornings. Leaving just as I begin to settle in. Throwing myself, again and again, into the complete unknown and absorbing the shock head-on.
That has been the shape of my life for the past four years.

I hadn't left my home country until my twenties. Like most people, I carried imagined versions of the world—some places painted warmly, others dulled by distance, stereotypes, or quiet conditioning. Still, I went.

And over these four years, there have been moments I’ve deeply cherished: arriving somewhere unfamiliar, walking streets I had never set foot on, learning new cultures, customs, and versions of history that differed from what I was taught in school.

Cairo may have been my breaking point.

I've been to other countries in Africa, most recently Morocco, and I felt that I would be prepared for the sensory overload. I wasn't. Morocco is what I would call controlled chaos; Cairo is pressure with no release.

Bumper-to-bumper traffic stretches endlessly, cars threading through lanes as if boundaries don’t exist. Smells stack on top of one another in the streets, while a grey smog hangs over the city, trapping the dirt, the stench, the chaos at street level.

Unlit apartment blocks crowd the skyline, concrete rotting in place, stacked so tightly it stops feeling like a city and starts feeling more like something slowly caving in on itself.

Dogs, cats, and horses drift through the streets alike, many rummaging through towering piles of trash for something to eat. It’s everywhere. Impossible to ignore.

It’s been hard to watch.
Hard to experience.

And for the first time in years, I’m not sure whether pushing forward into the unknown still feels like freedom, or something else entirely.