The Beauty of Missing a Place

I’ve been home from Greece for three days, and I already miss it. The food. The culture. The mountains. The beyond-epic scenery that really does exist and is somehow even more beautiful than the pictures. The sound of Greek being spoken around me. The kindness of complete strangers. The slowness that feels almost foreign when you’re used to the constant hustle and bustle of American life. I miss all of it.

There’s a strange feeling that comes with returning home after a trip you’ve spent years dreaming about. One day, you’re waking up somewhere giddy as a child on Christmas morning because you finally made it to one of your bucket-list destinations. You’re figuring out where to get coffee, learning how to drive like a Greek, tasting every delicacy you possibly can, and watching the sun disappear somewhere completely different from home.

And then suddenly, you’re back home, jet lagged and trying to motivate yourself to unpack the overstuffed suitcases. The laundry gets washed. The souvenirs find their places. The alarm gets set. Regular life resumes.

We call it the post-trip blues, and I definitely have them. But this time, I keep coming back to another feeling underneath the sadness: gratitude.

In 2018, researchers estimated that only about 11% of the world’s population traveled by air at all, and just 2–4% flew internationally. When you really stop and think about that, it’s pretty incredible.

And here I am, feeling sad about coming home after getting to spend two splendid weeks in Greece. It’s pretty surreal and, honestly, a bit humbling at the same time.

What a privilege it is to miss a place because I had the chance to know it.

I got to stand somewhere I’d spent years imagining. I swam in the Aegean. I wandered through villages and ancient ruins. I ate some of the best food of my life. I drove through mountains and along coastlines, sat down for meals where nobody seemed to be in a hurry, and experienced places and moments I know I’ll be talking about for years.

I got to experience the country my family came from and understand, even just a little more, why part of me has always felt pulled toward it. And I got to do all of it with my husband.

Travel is something so many of us dream about, but actually getting the opportunity to board the plane, cross an ocean, and experience another part of the world is far from universal. There are places many of us will only ever know through photographs, books, movies, or stories from someone who has been there. That isn’t something I ever want to take for granted.

So yes, coming home can sting a little. But maybe the goal isn’t to get rid of that feeling as quickly as possible. Maybe we should let ourselves miss the places that mattered to us.

Eventually the suitcase gets put away and the tan fades. The restaurant you loved becomes a name you have to search for in your camera roll. Little details start getting fuzzy around the edges. But every once in a while, something brings you right back. A song, a smell, a photograph you forgot you took, or a meal that tastes almost like the one you had there.

That’s one of my favorite things about travel. The trip ends, but somehow it keeps finding ways to come home with you.

As for Greece, I think part of what makes leaving easier is knowing that this wasn’t goodbye. I’ll be back. I don’t know exactly when, but there’s something comforting about knowing a place you love is still out there, carrying on without you, waiting to be experienced all over again someday. Only now, I get to help others plan their own special trip there and experience a little bit of that excitement all over again through them.

Until then, I’m choosing to be grateful that I have something so wonderful to miss.

And my tried-and-true cure for the post-trip blues? Plan the next trip. 😉

Because every journey begins with a feeling. And sometimes, the next one begins with missing the last.