I can feel myself changing and I know I won't return the same. Like disappearing ink, I see it in my walk, the words I choose and my reflection in the mirror. Unkempt hair, unshaven legs, unruly eyebrows. I am not pretty, but there are moments when I feel beautiful.

Gone are the norms. That luxury faded quickly. The moment I begin to feel comfortable in the cyclical tides, the wind shifts and I pack my bags to move on.

Which side of the road should I drive on, should I be eating with my hands or silverware, should my head be covered in modesty or does today call for a bathing suit? Does every man in uniform carry an automatic weapon and is the price of toothpaste really negotiable?

I am no longer shocked when herds of livestock run down the highway nor awaken by the call of the faithful to prayer. I see through the bright purple houses, raw meat dangling from hooks in the markets, people smoking shesha on every corner. Veiled women, antagonistic men, hungry children. Fresh produce, spice markets, thick curries. Tribal wares, embroidered fabrics, delicate silk. They sit still, but become blurred as I pass.

Then there are those moments I revert to the proverbial. The days when I gladly pay ten dollars for an US Weekly, swim at a Hilton Hotel, order a pizza at Little Caesars. I cleave to the familiarity, but wonder how could these things actually give me strength? Is it a moment of weakness or just the need for comfort from a well-worn shoe?

There is more unmistakable duality.

I feel myself getting detached but conscious, formidable but unassuming. There are many days when I'm no longer hassled. My bedraggled appearance confuses the hagglers, predators and beggars. Unsure of what to think of me, it's no longer clear where I'm coming from. Like a beast of purgatory, I'm not a local, not a tourist. Then comes a softness unlike I've ever known. It's the kind that makes me kiss the child that is maimed and dirty, pick up the animal I know is diseased, hug the women that wails for reasons I'm unsure of. On occasions like this, there are no words exchanged; I am learning to communicate with a different patois, one that's derived in silence. English is the second language of the world, but there is another dialect that I'm beginning to heed.

My greatest opponent is time. There is never enough in a day, but too much lies ahead. There is a new sense of endurance that I'm getting familiar with. This is my own version of a marathon and I regularly hit walls…both physical and mental. I can go to bed crying but wake up laughing. There are stretches of alone time that seem like decades, and moments with new friends I wish could last a lifetime.

It's in these times of isolation that my nostalgia falls prey to uncertainty. There are instances that I'm not sure actually happened. I find myself consulting photos or my video camera to validate a memory. But it's in those occasions occurring just outside of documentation that I feel things becoming chimerical. It's the ones that slipped away from my camera, dancing just out of my lens's view that becomes the subject of query. Did they actually touch my face to feel the color of my skin? Did that man's story literally bring me to tears and did the family that barely has enough to feed themselves, just offer me the largest portion? Did I really just eat that and did I actually enjoy it?

Most of all, there is overwhelming gratitude. I want to thank the people who I've met in congested airports and on long plane rides…starting with the monumental one from NYC to LA so long ago. Those of you who have shared the memory of overnight buss and train trips, laughter in hostel lobbies, and long days on unforgettable tours. Though they slip by quickly, I hold tightly to those connections. There are also people who have shared birthdays and holidays with me.... Your graciousness will forever be engraved upon those days and a year will not pass that I don't think of your benevolence. I have experienced yet another novelty of travel. There are people whom I've never actually met, but am in constant communication with. Information and words of encouragement flow between us, and there is a bond that exists outside of convention. As fellow travelers, you are my kindred spirits and one day I'm certain our paths will cross.

My friends from home who write me; I wish you could see how happy I am when receiving your letters of support and updates on your lives. I covet every word and find myself rereading them to feel closer to you. I promise to return with arms full of gifts.

Then there is my family and the people who support me from home. Thank you for sorting my mail, working on my website, littering your living rooms with maps to track my progress. Some of you have even traveled across the world to share my journey. Your belief in me is unforgettable.

A friend from the road asked me, if nothing I write ever gets published, would this trip still be worth it? I get that answer every time I cross your path and open your emails. It's because of all of you who read this, that my answer is a clear and resounding yes.

This is not an update of where I am, but more of an update of who I am.

Heather Connolly
Myunbeatenpath.com