Postcard from Barcelona: If Found, Return to My True Self

Carrie!

Consider this a postcard or a return letter—not to find you quickly, but to find you in the right timing, whenever you’re meant to read it.

Your advice has been so spot on, it’s almost like we’re connected. I’m on a train to Madrid, rereading your letter and reflecting on how much of it has already come to life.

You said I’d get lost—not just metaphorically, but literally—and you couldn’t have been more right. I’ve wandered unscripted, without directions, losing my cellular data at the most inconvenient times (always when I was alone, naturally). I imagine you smiling, knowing that losing my way was exactly how I’d find it. Especially that time I got 11 stops away from home somehow. That one was especially great. Thanks for that.

You even knew I’d fall—not just in a “fail forward” kind of way (though I see now that’s what you meant), but quite literally, stumbling up the escalator my first time on the metro. Of course, you had already prepared me for that too, with the original draft of your letter scratched out to instead say: discover the best way forward. It was never about finding the perfect way out—it was about surrendering to the motion, moving forward even when the path felt messy or unclear.

Thank you for crossing your fingers for me, because being placed in two pieces to perform with David Campos has been a dream I didn’t know I could live. I feel the most free, consistent, fearless, and recognized in dance that I ever have—and all of this has been communicated so clearly, even though classes are taught in Spanish and French.

David’s biggest correction for me? Create more space in my transitions and eat the music (this sounds better in Spanish). As he reminded me not to let my arms come too close to my body, what stayed with me was his advice to open myself up to flowing through transitions, not tightening up, and to dance with the music, not on top of or behind it. It feels like exactly what I’m learning here in life, too: creating space for myself to go through transitions, trusting the rhythm, and savoring each note as it comes.

I’ve felt the heartache you mentioned, too—the pull of everything I’ve left behind. My Samantha and Miranda both sent texts that tugged at my heartstrings. Samantha wrote, “I miss you like flowers miss the rain and sun,” while Miranda said, “Miss you like desserts miss the rain” (she meant deserts—my Miranda is going to be a doctor, not a lawyer). They literally sent these ironically—if that doesn’t show you how connected we are, I don’t know what does. Their words reminded me how much of my heart they hold and how deeply I’m nourished by the people who light me up with a simple text or call.

But I’ve realized something here: the seeds my friends planted in my heart have grown into something I can carry with me, no matter how far I go. They’ve watered and shined on me, and now I can stand beautifully as the flower on my own—even as I miss them, even lost in the desert.

Time moves differently here. Even when I’ve been lost or delayed, I’ve arrived exactly where I needed to be—never missing a moment that felt meant for me. The so-called accidents? They’ve been anything but. I only met incredible new friends because I forgot my jacket and ran back home, crossing paths with them on the street. And somehow, my cellular data chose to return five days later—just as I sat at dinner with the very girls I met because of that forgotten jacket.

And the strangers? They’ve felt so familiar, like I’ve met them before. One wild coincidence even revealed I had a baby photo with someone I thought I was meeting for the first time. These moments aren’t just serendipity—they’re pure magic.

So, yes, Carrie, I’ve become magnificently lost—but not lost in a way that scares me. Lost in a way that feels like an invitation to simply be.

Yours,

Hud

…

Hud!

Reading this, I feel like I’m right there on the train with you—watching the Spanish countryside blur into a watercolor masterpiece, soaking in every word of this remarkable chapter you’re writing as it happens.

First off, let’s address the obvious: Yes, I knew you’d get lost. Not just metaphorically (though you’ve spun poetry from even that), but truly, beautifully lost. The universe doesn’t play small, and neither do you. That’s why it had to go big—glitchy cellular data, 11-stop detours. But I wasn’t just watching, Hud—I was cheering, knowing you’d figure it out every time. Because that’s what you do. You fall up escalators, laugh about it, and still end up 11 stops closer to yourself.

And can we marvel for a second at how you’ve turned every “problem” into possibility? Forgotten jacket? A doorway to new friendships. No data? A forced invitation to be fully here. You’re not just moving through this chapter—you’re dancing with it, arms wide open, finding rhythm in every push and pull.

Speaking of dancing (because, obviously, we’re always speaking of dancing), David Campos?! I could cry for you. That freedom, that recognition—it’s everything I hoped you’d find. And of course, it’s in a place where words don’t matter, where your movement speaks fluently. Create space in transitions. Eat the music. Sounds a lot like what you’re doing in life too—making room for the unknown, trusting the rhythm, savoring every beat.

And then there’s your Samantha and Miranda. Flowers missing the rain, deserts missing the rain. Their words tell you exactly what I already knew—you’re held, deeply, even from across the world. They’re with you in every step, every moment, every dance. And they’re cheering you on just as loudly as I am.

But Hud, the real magic in all of this? It’s you. The way you’re seeing yourself in strangers, in streets, in small, perfect moments. The way you’ve discovered that being “magnificently lost” isn’t about not knowing where you are—it’s about knowing who you are, no matter where you are.

And that’s why your letter isn’t just a response—it’s a revelation.

Keep falling up escalators. Keep creating space. Keep dancing.

And don’t forget—this is just the beginning.

With all my love (and no crossed fingers, because you don’t need them),

Carrie