Dear Diary, 

I have been thinking lately about traveling. What would I do if I could not travel? Would I be bored with my life? Would I be uncultured? Would people respect me?

I realized that if I did not have a passport, I could not travel. I would have no form of identification necessary to travel. I wouldn’t even be able to enter through security. 

But then I thought, so what if I can’t travel? My life does not suck enough to where I feel the constant need to run away and escape it. 

Boo-hoo. Can’t travel. Whatever.

No passport. No identification. No person. 

Nothing. 

If I do not have a passport, I am not here. I don’t have any way of validating the fact that I am a person, I am alive, and I am well. 

I am here. 

My life could be falling apart, I might be mentally losing it, I could be questioning my entire existence, but my passport silences those thoughts.

Just looking at the single page with hundreds of identification numbers, my picture, my name. 

I know that I am me. 

I can see that my name is Teagan. 

I can change my hair, I could change my clothes, I could move to another place, but the passport does not change.

It may be the one stable thing in my life, but at least it is there. 

When it expires, it does not change who I am. It does not turn over and belong to a new person like friendships do. It will stay the same, as I will be the same. 

In the end, I do not care if I cannot travel; travel is not life. Yes, it is exhilarating and meaningful. Europe can teach about different cultures, the West can expose different environments, and beaches can show peace and tranquility.

But that does not matter.

I care if I know who I am. 

Traveling does not tell me who I am. 

My passport proves who I am. 

I may not know now, but at least I can start with one little hint. 

My name.