I Traveled the World Looking for Love. I’m Still Looking.

Since writing about being single at 33, the search hasn’t changed—even as the scenery has.

Sonya Matejko daydreaming in Gdańsk, Poland

I’m sitting in a parking lot listening to Trevor Hall’s “great storm clouds” on repeat as I cry into my steering wheel like it’s a microphone. Behind me is the shopping plaza where the Tijuana Flats I worked at in high school used to be. It’s been nearly two decades since I parked in this lot to serve tacos and cookie dough flautas for $7.55/hour. While my hometown and my hourly rate have drastically changed, one thing remains the same: I’m just a girl, crying over a boy, wondering if I’ll ever be loved.

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I’m back in the place I grew up, but I still don’t feel like a grown-up. Maybe it’s because in my head, I think a true grown-up is married, has children, a joint savings account, and a cheesy family Christmas card. Instead, I’ve spent the last few years living abroad, coming back “home” for a few months each winter.

I left the U.S. a few years ago for many reasons (I’m sure you can guess at a few), but the main reason was that I was searching for love. I’m a hopeless romantic, you see, and I would cross oceans to find the thing that had eluded me stateside. But four years in, it continued to elude me. And a year after finally saying out loud how tired I was of being single, I’m still here.

So I would pour myself into new places to fill the gap in my heart. I drank rosé in Malta overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, hiked in Lucerne with cowbells twinkling in the distance, and stared up at the stars from a yurt in the Agafay Desert. I’ve seen and done many beautiful things, but I’ve had no one to turn to and say, “Isn’t this amazing?” So I’d post it to my Instagram story, write about it in my journal, and send a photo to my mother.

I used travel as a way to fill me up, and it always worked—for a while. But my heart had holes. No matter how much I poured in, I could never hold onto the fullness.

Like today, as I sit ugly crying in this parking lot.

Earlier in the day, a new guy I’d been seeing told me he was “too busy” for anything serious. I was disappointed, but less about him than about starting over—again—before anything had really begun. It was a familiar place, and I was tired of visiting it.

Then I found myself at a baby shower. Now, I love baby showers. And weddings. And kids’ birthday parties. Give me a place to celebrate someone I love, and I’ll be there. After all, I have a lot of excess love to give.

But there’s one thing I don’t like about these events, which has gotten more pronounced over the last few years. I’m always bound to run into someone I haven’t seen in a while and hear them say, “I’m so jealous of your travels.” They’ll tell me how they wish they’d done more before they got married or had a family. They’ll tell me I’m brave, courageous. I smile and nod graciously, because I understand it’s a privilege to have designed a life this way.

But what I really want to tell them is that, as much as I love traveling, I’m tired of doing it alone. More than that, I’m tired of having no one to come home to after.

I want to tell them what it was like to travel, not to Capri or Crete, but to an IVF clinic in Prague to freeze my eggs—and sit alone in the waiting room, surrounded by couples—so that, one day, I too might get a baby shower like this one.

I want to tell them about the emptiness I feel when I return to an empty apartment. Or the rejection I felt being told the table I reserved in Nice was only for parties of two . “Just you?” Yes, just me—always.

I want to tell them about the loneliness of traveling through life without a plus one.

A part of me sees what they see, though. I’m grateful for the places I’ve gone, the people I’ve gotten to know, and the postcard realities I’ve experienced. And I’m proud as hell that I’ve built a life that allows for this. But I’m also sad as hell to not have someone to share it with.

You see, I may be well-traveled. But I’m still waiting to be well-loved.

So as I sit crying in this parking lot hours later, I’m reevaluating my bucket list.

Because where I really want to travel is…

To an anniversary instead of two decades of first dates.

To have someone to ask me how I am at the end of the day.

To trying on wedding dresses rather than my eighth bridesmaid dress.

To a table for two, across from someone whose laugh lines I’ve memorized.

To a loud kitchen filled with life and loved ones to share morning coffee with.

To introducing someone I love to my 85-year-old grandmother.

To the aisle where I get to walk toward someone who chose me.

To the moment when my emergency contact isn’t my mother.

To the OB-GYN to hear our baby’s heartbeat for the first time.

To my newborn’s bedroom with its freshly stenciled walls.

To first steps, first words, and first birthdays, not just first dates.

And yes, to the airport—but with a full row. Where I have a hand to hold when turbulence hits (yes, I’m still nervous after all these years), or a small one reaching for mine as I put on a brave face just for them.

Because as much as I still dream of hiking in New Zealand, eating my way through Japan, and island-hopping across Greece, the real dream is to have someone to visit these places with. To see the world through their eyes. And to give my kids this gift of travel, the way my parents did.

For now, I back out of the parking lot and start the drive I’ve done a thousand times. Back to my childhood bedroom. Back to the diaries of a little girl dreaming of true love. Back to falling asleep and waking up alone on repeat.

Still, I drive. As I wipe off the tears and shake off the sadness, I know I’ll continue to see the world, continue to celebrate love—even when it isn’t my own—and, above all else, keep packing hope into my carry-on.

Sonya Matejko is a writer, poet, and marketer whose work stretches across work, health, and the human experience. Written with her signature warmth and candor, her writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Forbes, HuffPost, Open Secrets, Yoga Journal, and more. Her debut poetry collection, Everlasting Spring, was released in January 2025. Find her at www.nurturednarratives.com.