Personally? My favourite part about travelling and going on a trip is staying in the hotel room.

Is that strange? Yes.

Weird? Absolutely.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the usual parts of travel too, meeting new people, exploring the place, and eating great food. It’s all refreshing. But those are the obvious, common things people enjoy. What I think is severely underrated is the feeling you get the moment you step into your hotel room for the first time.

There’s something oddly intimate about walking into a hotel room. At first, it feels too polished, too white, too tidy, too quiet. You open every drawer even though you know they’ll be empty. You check out the bathroom and inspect all the complimentary toiletries like you’ve just discovered treasure. You press every button and flick every light switch just to see what they do. And in that moment, you silently vow: I will not mess up this perfect little space.

But then, give it an hour or two, and something shifts.

Slowly, the space begins to feel familiar.

Your bag is on the chair.

The remote’s somewhere on the bed.

You’ve rearranged the pillows, ruined the perfectly spread duvet, and made yourself a cup of that questionable but oddly satisfying instant coffee. It’s no longer a hotel room. It’s your room now.

It’s a quiet transformation, the same kind of comfort you feel when you finally find your spot on the couch at a friend’s house. It starts off feeling odd, but slowly, you begin to find your comfort. The unfamiliar becomes familiar. The sterile becomes soft. You’ve brought your own little chaos into the space, and somehow, that chaos feels like home.

You test out the shower. You flip through random TV channels. You adjust the air conditioning just how you like it.

And suddenly, it hits you: Why does this place feel like mine?

How did that happen so quickly?

That, I think, is the real magic.

It’s not the fancy sheets or the view or the room service. It’s the act of claiming something that doesn’t belong to you and making it feel like it does, even if only for a night. It’s that deeply human instinct to adapt, to settle, to transform any space into something personal.

We’ve always done this. From the moment we’re born, we’re dropped into a world that’s unfamiliar. And somehow, over time, we make it ours.

That doesn’t stop in childhood. We do it every time we start a new school. Move to a new city. Join a college. Get a job. We start out unsure, awkward, and out of place. Then little by little, we adjust. We find our people. We create routines. And suddenly, what once felt foreign starts to feel like home.

It’s the same with people.

At first, they’re strangers. There’s small talk. Awkward smiles. A search for something to connect over. But then time does its thing, and that stranger becomes someone who knows you. Someone who sees you. Someone who becomes yours, even if just for a moment.

That instinct to belong, to settle in, to make something ours isn’t just about places or people. It shows up in the hobbies we try, the playlists we keep on loop, and the little corners of the internet we keep going back to. We’re always trying to create comfort in the discomfort.

Always trying to make somewhere, or someone, feel like home.

But of course, not everything lasts forever.

Eventually, the vacation ends.

You zip your suitcase shut. You double-check the bathroom. You fluff the pillows just a bit before leaving, like that somehow matters.

And then… You close the door behind you.

The hotel room goes back to being just a room. But it’s not just the place you’re leaving behind.

It’s the little version of yourself that lived there.

The way you had coffee at the same time every morning.

The way the mirror, used by millions before, somehow became your mirror.

The way the room held your sleep, your laughs, your quiet time.

You’re not just packing up your things, you’re packing up memories. A piece of yourself.

And here’s the twist, this is exactly what happens in life too.

Sometimes we meet people who feel like home. People who make us feel safe, seen, and loved in ways we didn’t know we needed. And maybe we want to keep them forever. But deep down, we know: just like the hotel room, some people are temporary.

Maybe they were never meant to stay.

Maybe they were just meant to show us a version of ourselves we hadn’t met yet.

And that’s okay.

Because the real challenge, the real art, is in knowing when and how to let go. To walk away, leaving behind something softer, kinder, happier even? just slightly better than when we arrived. To be thankful for the time we had, even if it was short. And most of all, to carry the experience with us not as baggage, but as part of who we are.

Even after we check out, even when the space is empty again, we’re not the same. And neither is the room.

Maybe that’s what “unpacking” really looks like, not just bags, but bits of ourselves. Not unzipping a suitcase or organizing your things. But unwrapping parts of yourself in a space that holds them, even briefly. Opening up, settling in, and then learning to leave with gratitude instead of grief.

Because in the end, the most important thing we ever unpack… is ourselves.

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