by Tenise McCoy
Shortlisted in the 2026 PureTravel Writing Competition Stories For Survival
I was losing myself in ways I never realized were possible, to the point where even showering and keeping up with my skincare routine felt more like a chore than a luxury. it’s not that you forgot how to be happy, or even that you’ve forgotten what happiness feels like. The truth is that when we sink deeply into sadness, it becomes a place we don’t want to leave, a space that, over time, turns into a source of comfort and familiarity. A sanctuary.
Until one day, in the middle of a Zoom call, one of my colleagues casually mentioned that she’d decided to travel to Costa Rica for a month and how transformative the experience had been for her. Her words snapped me out of my apathetic daze, offering a glimmer of hope, anything better than the version of myself I had become. I felt as though I’d floated out of my body, looking down at myself from above, a bird’s-eye view of a life I barely recognized. There I was, slouched on my worn brown couch, legs crossed awkwardly, my laptop perched on my lap, shoulders hunched into a caricature of neglect. The woman staring blankly at the screen, camera off, mic muted, was a stranger. Two-day-old sweats, a torn T-shirt, and a lifeless posture spoke volumes about the months I’d spent deprioritizing myself. This wasn’t living; it was barely surviving.
Her words echoed in my ears like a warning bell. And I could hear my mind telling me: “If you don’t do something soon, you will lose. Not just yourself, but your life.” It was my own voice and I couldn’t ignore it. That day, when work ended, I searched for flights, not out of curiosity, but out of desperation. I didn’t know where I was going or how long I’d be gone, but I knew one thing: staying where I was, a shell of myself, was no longer an option. By the end of the week, I’d booked a one-way ticket to Mexico, started putting things into storage and had my mail forwarded to my mom’s house. The most difficult task was trying to explain to loved ones why I was leaving without a clear plan.
When people asked about my decision, I answered honestly: I didn’t have one, just an overwhelming sense that I needed to go. Their disapproval was apparent. “Mexico is too risky for a single woman,” “The cartel looks for women traveling alone”. Every variation of these warnings was heard, digested, and understood, but still they did not change my mind. I wasn’t looking for something safe. Danger was not particularly on my list either, but I needed to feel challenged, I was seeking salvation.
At the time, I thought I was running away from myself. Later, I realized what I’d actually been doing was chasing. Chasing a better version of me.
When I landed in Mexico, my Spanish vocabulary was non-existent—barely 30 words, basic manners and a few curse words learned from high school friends. I spent the flight stringing together nonsensical phrases, preparing for confrontations that never came. It felt silly, but I hadn’t laughed at myself in so long that even this small moment of humor felt like meeting up with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years.
While Navigating the airport, I felt disoriented but oddly alive. The confusion of being confused was oddly refreshing. For the first time in months, I wasn’t numbed by routine. It wasn’t until I was behind the driver seat of my rental car that I’d even realized how crazy it was to drive myself to an airbnb in a country I’d never been to. I didn’t know a single law about driving the streets of Mexico and had of course been warned about how unfriendly Mexican streets are. Especially unfriendly to a single female traveler like me, one who had arrived with nothing but two suitcases and her three-year-old miniature schnauzer. But there I was, taking a deep, comprehensive breath, before pulling off the car rental lot and onto the hectic streets of Mexico with my sweet co-pilot’s head hanging out the passenger window offering no help with navigation.
The first day was a blur of adrenaline and doubt. On the second morning, as I sat at the kitchen table of my Airbnb eating a breakfast taco, the weight of my decision came crashing down and I… panicked. What was I doing here? I had no support system, no safety net. What if something happened to me or my dog? For a moment, I considered giving up, calling my mom, and admitting that I’d made a mistake. But I didn’t. Something—maybe pride, maybe the same desperation from that day on my couch, kept me grounded in that moment.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. By the fourth month, I found myself on the balcony of my third Airbnb, swaying slowly in a hammock I’d bought from a street vendor. The scene was simple, almost romantic: Spanish music drifting from a neighbor’s house, children playing and shouting in a language that was still foreign to me. I felt utterly alone, but this loneliness was unlike anything I’d experienced before. It wasn’t self-loathing or the suffocating weight of isolation. It was solitude, a space where I could finally hear my own thoughts without the interference of judgment or distraction. A sanctuary of a different kind, one that nurtured rather than trapped me.
In that moment, I was still. For the first time in years, I wasn’t running toward or away from anything. The feeling was unfamiliar but unmistakable: peace. I hadn’t realized how long I hadn’t known it until I finally did. That feeling has stayed with me ever since. It wasn’t just a moment; it was a revelation, a reminder of what I’d been missing and what I would always seek.
I wasn’t running from myself, I was running towards a version of me I didn’t know I was missing.
In the end, my time in Mexico didn’t last just a few months—it stretched into three years, three of the happiest years of my life. What started as an impulsive escape became the most profound chapter of my journey, one filled with adventure, healing, and self-discovery. I built a life there, one that felt more authentic than anything I had known before. I learned the language, made lifelong friends that felt like family, and found joy in the simplest of moments.
But even in a place that felt like freedom, those months and years did not go without heartbreak. I loved my life there, yet I still faced loss, disappointment, and moments of doubt. My wisdom about love, loss, and rebuilding was hard-won and well deserved. Mexico didn’t erase my struggles, as I originally hoped it would; instead it taught me how to move through them with a bit more grace. And as a result, no matter where I am in the world, I have learned to have peace with myself. More importantly, I’ve learned that even when I lose it, because we all do from time to time, I know that I will always find it again.
My time in Mexico didn’t just save me; it reshaped me. I left not as the woman who had arrived, desperate to flee, but as someone who had finally found her truest self.
Photo by Jezael Melgoza on Unsplash
