I am in an airport all by myself.
I am allowed to be by myself.
I got myself to my gate without Zach and Courtney’s help.
Because the World Race is over.
In 14 minutes I’ll board my last plane. In 64 minutes I’ll tackle my mom.
And after I eat Taco Bell for the first time in eleven months, I’ll go home and take a shower in my own bathroom and get in my own bed and then it will really be over.
In Colombia, month 4, as I was researching flights home because I couldn’t do it anymore, my only reason for not actually buying a ticket was that I needed to prove to the world that I wasn’t a quitter.
I did it. I made it to the finish line. But in the end I didn’t do it for everyone else. By Malaysia, I found that I was much happier resting in God’s approval than fighting for the rest of the world’s.
But I did it.
I don’t know how to talk about my year yet.
I miss my squad.
I’m jet lagged half to death.
Annnd they’re calling my flight number now.
That’s the cutest little plane I’ve ever seen. I think the whole thing could fit inside the Qatar flight I was on yesterday.
Home is 48 minutes away.
