What now that I am going back home?

The idea of going on a long voyage always carries a promise. I imagine the experiences will change me, that something about my behaviours, my patterns, even the way I connect to people will shift. I hope that by travelling far, by placing myself in unfamiliar surroundings, I might discover new parts of myself. And really, that is what journeys are about. Not only to collect impressions, but to leave as much of the old behind as possible. To begin each journey with fresh eyes, a fresh spirit, and an open heart.

This was always my hope when I visited my parents in Grenada each Christmas. For nearly twenty years, I made that same journey. Northern Germany would be sunk deep in winter, grey and heavy, with everyone tired and cross, the days short and the streets damp. Then, suddenly, I was in Grenada, where even strangers carried sunshine in their voices, where smiles were everywhere, and where those weeks with family and friends felt restorative in a way nothing else could match.

Each year I promised myself I would bring some of that back with me. I would carry home the warmth, the ease, the brighter Grenada version of myself. And every year, within two weeks, I would catch myself complaining about some small irritation and know it was gone. The Grenada Lia had vanished.

On this voyage, I tried something different. I made a conscious effort not to cling to expectations or old frames of reference. What I discovered, though, is not just the obvious changes, but many things I have not yet been able to talk about. In truth, I have hardly had the time or space to reflect on them myself. Perhaps in the months ahead, when the days grow shorter and the nights longer, there will be room for more musing, more sorting through of what has really shifted in me.

What I would most like to leave behind are the fixed ideas I carry about myself. These conceptions have built up over years of growing older, of working in environments where I was often the odd one out, the woman engineer, the only foreigner in the department, or simply the oldest person in the room. For decades, I fought against stereotypes, tried not to fit the labels others wanted to stick on me. I fought to prove that I was not what others assumed a woman in engineering was supposed to be, or how a foreigner was supposed to behave.

And then there is age. In the last twenty years, I have become acutely aware of how age shapes the way people perceive me. Sometimes the influence is subtle, as in the impatience of service staff. Sometimes it is not subtle at all, such as trying to find a job after fifty. Either way, it presses in. I have often felt myself being seen through that lens first, before anything else.

These two months at sea have loosened that grip on me. My fellow sailors have helped me free my mind from those tight conceptions. I want to keep writing about it, to keep thinking about it, because the lesson is too valuable to let fade. What I see here, surrounded by people from so many countries, with such a wide span of experience and ages, is that age itself barely registers. Some are in their fifties, others barely in their twenties, and yet it never seems to matter. What counts is whether you have the experience to do the job, whether you are willing to work hard, whether you can be relied upon. That is what matters. And that lesson, that liberation from the measuring stick of age, is something I want to carry forward with me.

Another idea I want to leave behind is the conviction that life must always be exciting, ever-changing, and driven by an endless hunger to learn and do more. (I can hear my daughter saying, “Projects, you and your projects!”) Of course, learning is important. It always has been for me. But what I noticed on this trip is that the times I learned the most were not when I was reading LinkedIn posts, listening to YouTube lectures, or filling myself with new information. The times I learned the most were the hours I simply sat and looked out at the sea.

In those moments, I felt the same as I had thirty-five years ago, sitting on deck and staring at the horizon. There was no difference in my heart or in my mind. The essence of who I am has always been the same: someone curious, someone who delights in discovery, and someone who wants, in her own way, to bring more love and more happiness into the lives of others.

That is what endures. That is what I hope to hold on to.

So, what now, as I return to Lübeck? Perhaps the real change will not be in adopting new habits or carrying home exotic stories, as I once tried with Grenada, but in letting go of the weight I no longer need. If I can return with a lighter step, less caught up in how others perceive me, less bound by expectations of age or endless striving, then I will have carried something of the sea back with me. Not the storms or the distances, but the spaciousness, the patience, and the freedom that come when I allow myself to simply be.