Ushuaia - Its time to go home

We cycled back down into Ushuaia today.

Same road.

Same hill.

Same cold southern air rolling off the mountains.

But I wasn’t the same.

The first time we rode in, I was overwhelmed. Emotional. Buzzing. Half in disbelief that we’d actually made it. Everything felt loud and rushed and unreal.

This time, I felt… settled. Quietly proud. Proud of us. Proud of Maree. Proud of myself.

There was no rush in my chest. No “what next?” panic. No mental scrambling. Just a calm, steady feeling of: Yeah. We did this.

Our little cabina retreat by the lake had been the reset button I didn’t know I needed. It gave me space to land. To breathe. To process. To stop running toward the next thing.

Our plan now is simple.

Restock. Head up to Camping Ushuaia. Lounge about. Go with the flow.

I could give you a blow-by-blow of the last eight days here, the coffees, the supermarkets, the gear washing, the bike cleaning.... but that’s not really the point.

We’ve learned how to sit still without feeling guilty. How to rest without thinking we’re wasting time. How to be without constantly doing.

Right now, I feel like I’m in a waiting room.

Not in a bad way.

More like that quiet space before something new begins.

I’m ready to go home.

I’m ready for friends.

For family.

For familiar hills and familiar laughs.

And strangely… I’m also ready for whatever comes next.

I don’t know what that is yet.

But I’m open to it.

This has been one hell of an adventure.

Not the Instagram version.

Not the highlight reel.

The real one.

The gritty one.

The lonely one.

The funny one.

The exhausting one.

The soul-stretching one.

We’ve had highs and lows in every possible way, physically, emotionally, mentally.

Some days we felt unstoppable.

Some days we felt broken.

Over the last month, Maree and I have talked a lot about this past year. About what it’s meant. About what it’s changed in us.

One day she asked me:

“Do you have any regrets?”

I didn’t even need to think.

No.

None.

We didn’t come into this with grand expectations. We didn’t have some perfect vision of how it “should” look. We didn’t try to control it. We just showed up. Day after day. We made it up as we went. Sometimes that meant magic. Sometimes that meant chaos. Often it meant both at once.

We were given opportunities that didn’t look like opportunities at the time.

Like Peru.

When I pinched a nerve in my neck and ended up with searing arm pain. I thought it was over. I was gutted. I felt useless. Scared. Fragile. But instead of quitting, we paused.

We asked: What now? What can we do with this? So we opted for volunteer work. And it became one of the best chapters of the whole journey. We saw parts of Peru we never would’ve. We met people who changed us. We gave something back instead of just passing through. That moment taught me something big:

Sometimes the detours are the destination.

And then there’s us.

Our relationship.

Man… we’ve had some proper hurlies. Wind. Fatigue. Hunger. Stress. Fear. Homesickness.

All magnified by living in each other’s pockets for a year. We’ve snapped. We’ve cried. We’ve gone quiet. We’ve learned. We’ve grown. Individually. Together. We know each other in a way that only comes from shared hardship and shared joy.

Would I ride across South America again?

No.

Not because it wasn’t incredible. Because part of what makes adventure powerful, for me, is the unknown. If I did it again, I’d know too much. The edge would be gone. And besides… There’s a whole world out there still waiting.

This adventure has been epic. Not perfect. Not polished. Not easy. But real. And now… It’s time to go home. Time to carry these stories with us. Time to let them shape what comes next.

But I'm leaving South America with no regrets.

People think the hardest part of a big adventure is the start.

Quitting your job.

Selling your stuff.

Saying goodbye.

Stepping into the unknown.

For sure that is challenging.

But, for me, the hardest part is the end.

Right now I have no there’s no dirrection.

No daily mission. No “just get to the next town.” No border to cross. No mountain to climb. Just… life again. Normal life.

And I’m standing here asking myself:

What the f#@& now??

Before this ride I was

Independent, but comfortable. Dreamy, but practical. I loved adventure, but I still lived inside my limits more than I realised. This year stretched my limits until they snapped.

Out here, I amplified my knowledge of I can survive on very little. A tent. A stove. A bike. A partner. A stubborn streak. That’s it.

I learned that my body is stronger than my fears. That my mind is tougher than my doubts. That I don’t quit when things get ugly.

And they got ugly. Wind that broke me. Loneliness that hollowed me. Pain that scared me. Days where I wanted to crawl into my sleeping bag and disappear.

But I didn’t. I got up. I pedalled. I kept going.

Over and over again. Somewhere between Colombia and Patagonia, I stopped needing external proof that I was capable. I just knew.

I learned how to be uncomfortable without panicking.

Cold? Keep moving.

Hungry? Get creative.

Lost? Figure it out.

Scared? Breathe and go anyway.

That confidence doesn’t come from motivational quotes. It comes from lived experience. From choosing courage when no one is watching.

I’ve also learned how deeply I value simplicity.

Give me: A fire. A cup of coffee. A good yarn. A safe place to sleep. Someone I love beside me.

I’m rich. I don’t need much. I don’t want much. I want time. Connection. Wild places. Meaningful stories. And laughter. Always laughter.

This journey stripped away the noise.

No societal presures. No performance. No pretending. Just sweat, dirt, emotion, truth.

I met myself out here. Not the 'I'vegot my shit together version. Not the “doing well” version.

The raw one. The one who cries in a gutter when she’s tired. The one who swears, very lordly, at the wind. The one who laughs at my stupid jokes. The one who keeps loving anyway. The one who doesn’t give up. And I like her. I’m proud of her.

Maree and I, we know each other now in bone-deep ways. We’ve seen each other broken. We’ve seen each other brave. We’ve seen each other exhausted. We’ve seen each other shine.

There’s nothing fake left between us, not even going to the loo!

So now…

I’m going home different. I’m softer. And stronger. More patient. Even less tolerant of bullshit. More grateful. Less distracted.

I don’t need to prove myself, even to myself.

I’ve lived my proof. I’ve ridden it. Cried it. Laughed it. Carried it. From the top of South America to the bottom of the world.

When people ask, “Did it change you?”

Yes.

But not into someone else. It changed me into more of myself. And maybe that’s what adventure really does. It doesn’t make you extraordinary. It reminds you that you already were.

Before I close this chapter, there is something I need to say.

Thank you.

Not the quick, polite kind. If I could hug you I would. Yes I am a hugger!! I want to thank you. The genuine, real kind of thanks. . The lump-in-the-throat kind. The sit-with-it-for-a-minute kind.

This adventure was never just mine and Maree's. Yes, we pedalled the kilometres. Yes, we slept in the tent. Yes, we battled the wind and the cold and the doubt.

But we were never alone out here.

Every message. Every comment. Every “you’ve got this.” Every “we’re following along.” Every late-night check-in. Every quiet read from someone I didn’t even know was watching.

Some days, when my legs were empty and my head was loud, I’d think about people back home. About friends. Whānau. Strangers. Fellow dreamers. Other people thinking, “Maybe I could do that too.” And it mattered. More than you know.

When things were hard, and they were hard,

your support carried me.

When I was sick. When I was scared. When I was exhausted. When I wondered what the hell I was doing. Your presence filled the gaps.

To my friends and whānau in Aotearoa, thank you. For backing me. For worrying quietly. For loving loudly. For being my safe place in the world.

To everyone who shared my posts, messaged me, checked in, laughed at my toilet stories, and stuck around through the long, windy, muddy bits...

Thank you.

To those who supported us practically, with advice, contacts, beds, meals, rides, repairs, kindness...

To the people we met on the road who gave us food, shelter, stories, smiles, and trust,

you restored my faith in humans.

Over and over again.

And to you, reading this now, whether you’ve followed since day one or stumbled in halfway through or just now.

Thank you.

Thank you for walking this journey with us.

You turned challenging kilometres into shared moments. You turned words into connection. You turned a personal dream into a collective one.

This blog was never about showing off.

It was about telling the truth. About being real. About sharing the messy middle. About saying: “This is hard. This is beautiful. This is life, this is me.”

I’ll carry this year with me forever.

Every mountain. Every storm. Every stranger. Every laugh. Every tear. Every sunrise. Every campfire. Every lesson.

From the bottom of my muddy, wind-battered, deeply grateful heart...

Thank you.

Thanknyou for...For believing. For listening. For caring. For walking beside me.

This chapter is closing.

But the story isn’t over.

With love, gratitude, and a whole lot of heart,

Let's keep adventuring.

Thank you

H 💛