We’ve checked into a quiet hotel near the airport tonight—nothing fancy, just a clean room with soft lighting, the faint hum of the heater, and that comforting sense of closeness to where we need to be. Our flight to the Philippines is scheduled for early tomorrow, and with home being a good few hours away, we didn’t want to risk it. One missed train, one traffic jam—and all the pieces could unravel. So here we are: bags packed one last time, alarms set, passports in easy reach. And our hearts? Somewhere suspended—caught between goodbye and homecoming.

Earlier today, we passed through St Pancras Station. And if you’ve ever stood there during the 5 p.m. rush, you’ll know what I mean when I say it felt like stepping into a river of motion. People flowed like clockwork—suitcases trailing behind, coffees in one hand, phones in the other. Shoulders stiff, faces stern, pace unrelenting. Everyone had somewhere to be. Everyone was looking ahead, but not around. There was no room for softness. No time for slowness.

And yet, somewhere in that sea of movement, I paused.

Not intentionally. Not to make a statement. I was simply waiting for my partner to sort out the tickets. But in that moment, I became still while the world kept moving—and I noticed things I wouldn’t have if I had rushed with it.

I noticed a little boy tightening his grip on his mother’s hand every time the crowd pressed too close. I noticed an older man reading the platform board, his fingers slightly trembling as he counted the stops. I saw a woman discreetly wiping away a tear behind oversized sunglasses. People with stories, emotions, quiet struggles—each of them lost in the blur of a station that doesn’t wait for anyone.

And in that stillness, it hit me: we are no longer taught how to wait.

We’re taught how to race, to chase, to move on. We glorify efficiency. We schedule rest. We download mindfulness apps because we’ve forgotten how to sit still without them. Waiting has become an inconvenience in a world that rewards constant movement.

But that pause—brief, unremarkable to anyone else—gave me something invaluable: perspective. Presence. A reminder that sometimes, the world doesn’t need another person rushing through it. It needs someone to look up, to notice, to breathe.

It made me think of where I’m going. After more than two years, I’m flying home to the Philippines. And yet, somehow, in that busy London train station, I felt the presence of home before I even arrived. Not in geography, but in emotion. Because home isn’t always a place. Sometimes it’s the feeling of being held by a moment. A moment when you stop performing. A moment when your heart catches up to your body.

And isn’t that what travel is supposed to do? Slow us down enough to notice the world again?

Tonight, in this hotel room, there’s a kind of hush that invites reflection. The faint sound of planes overhead. The suitcase zipped and ready. My mother asleep nearby, wrapped in her scarf as if holding a part of her day close. And me, writing this—choosing to remember not just the takeoff ahead, but the small, unassuming moments that stitched this day together.

That boy. That woman. That stillness.

How many goodbyes have we rushed through because they hurt too much to linger? How many arrivals have we celebrated with noise, but not with silence enough to truly absorb them?

This is what I want to carry into the journey ahead: the ability to pause. To notice. To not just pass through a moment, but to live inside it.

And maybe that’s the secret no itinerary tells you—

Travel isn’t just about airports and new places. It’s about the moments in between. The waiting, the wandering, the watching. The breath before the boarding call. The quiet look exchanged with someone you love in a crowded place. The memory that surprises you when you’re standing still.

The journey begins tomorrow.

But I think the real one started today—in a rush-hour station, in a hotel room full of anticipation, in the quiet decision to slow down and see.

And I don’t want to miss any of it.

– Anj 🙂