I've always been obsessed with stories. Even as a small kid, I used to read them, make them up, write them. And at some point, I decided to share my stories with the world, on this blog. That's how I got the idea that maybe, just maybe, if I told stories of my travels, I could show people how beautiful our planet is. Maybe I'd inspire some people to take better care of our world. Call it the idealism of a not-quite-millennial girl if you want. But it was one of the main reasons why I was looking forward to spending a few weeks in Africa this summer. It was going to be one big adventure, it would make for weeks of amazing blog posts that would maybe provide food for thought for more people than just me and my dad. Africa completely lived up to those expectations. While I was there, I couldn't wait to start writing.

But then I came home... and I couldn't do it. No matter how often I tried, how often I picked up a pen, how often I searched the right words, my message would fall flat every time. The words sounded bland compared to my memories. It just didn't feel right. I was trying to tell stories that I wasn't ready to share yet. So I decided to keep them to myself a little longer. Africa taught me so much, and as long as I haven't fully learned those lessons, I can't turn them into blog posts like I've been doing for years.

Now, in November, I still think about those few warm weeks in August on an almost daily basis. When I walk through the forest next to the athletics track I train at, I sometimes feel like I'm back in the Okavango Delta. Every now and then, my train home turns into a mokoro. Unexpected noises coming from the backyard still scare the living daylight out of me. Stories from Africa cross my mind in those moments, and that's when I know: Soon I'll be telling those stories. Soon, but not now. For now, I'll just share this picture of a baby elephant. Because baby elephants can brighten any day.