On a recent cruise to the Caribbean with three of my closest friends, I found myself unexpectedly charmed by the experience, despite my initial reluctance. I’m 69 years old, originally from Bergen, Norway, and though I’ve always loved to travel—especially since retiring—the idea of being stuck on a boat with tourists seemed absurd. But my friends were persuasive, and I figured, why not?

This morning, I stood in front of the mirror, running a hand over my freshly shaved head. I’m 42 now, two years back in Atlanta after nine years in a São Paulo, USA, prison for drug smuggling. Those years changed me forever. I used to walk these streets without a care, but now every corner, every face, feels different.

The sound of my alarm jolts me awake. Another day begins. I skip breakfast again, as usual, because the thought of being late to work is worse than starting the day on an empty stomach. By 9 a.m., I’m in my uniform, pushing my cleaning cart down the long corridor of the hotel where I've worked for twelve years.

My alarm went off at 7:30 AM. I rolled out of bed quietly, careful not to wake my roommates, Jordan and Alex, who were probably still asleep after last night’s party. The kitchen was a mess—empty bottles, pizza boxes, and someone’s jacket thrown over a chair. I ignored it, sipping my coffee while scrolling through my phone, pretending I was the only one in the apartment.

It was a typical Wednesday morning, starting before dawn, when the sky is still a deep blue. At 46 years old, I’ve learned to manage mornings like these, packing lunch for my four children, who were half-asleep under their blankets. We live in a small, cramped house in a township in southern Johannesburg, South Africa.

The other day, I found myself sitting alone in my studio, the place where I’ve spent countless hours crafting images that used to capture the imagination of the fashion world. The light coming through the windows was perfect, but there were no models, no stylists bustling around, no assistants adjusting the reflectors. Just me, a few leftover props, and the faint echo of the past.

Today started like any other day, with the familiar routine of setting up my stall at the market. The sun was already warm, bathing the entire market in a golden light. The aroma of fresh fruits filled the air, mingling with the scents of spices and breads from nearby stalls. Buxoro’s market, in my homeland of Uzbekistan, has always been a vibrant place, filled with the hum of conversations and the lively banter of sellers and buyers.

The sun was setting over the serene beaches of Lombok, Indonesia, casting long shadows on the sand as I walked along the shore. The sound of waves gently lapping against the shore was soothing, a stark contrast to the noise that had filled my life back in Qatar. I’ve been here for two months now, peeling away layers of the life I thought I had to live.

I woke up to the sound of seagulls outside my window this morning. Even in Helsinki, so far from the countryside I loved, the sound made me feel a little closer to the world I used to know. I’ve been here at this retirement home for a few months now. My life in the little red house in the country feels like it was another lifetime, but I still remember the scent of pine trees and the cool touch of morning dew on my walks.

When I step outside, the salty breeze from the ocean hits me, bringing with it the familiar scent of home. Guadeloupe is paradise on earth—a place where the sea is as blue as the sky and the palm trees sway gently to the rhythm of the wind. The beaches are like something out of a postcard, the kind tourists dream of, and the ones I’ve known all my life.

I’m 32 and have been working as a kindergarten teacher in Dubrovnik, Croatia, for several years, and despite the challenges, I genuinely love what I do. We care for 24 children, ranging from one to six years old, and usually, there are three of us to share the load. But lately, with one of my colleagues out sick, it’s just two of us handling twice the usual number of kids.

Yesterday, I stood in front of the van Gogh that had haunted me for two decades. I’ve seen it countless times before, but this was different. As the director of a renowned art museum in Amsterdam, Netherlands, I never thought I'd see it again, finally back home where it belongs.

Standing on the podium with a silver medal around my neck, I should've felt proud. But all I could think about was the gold that slipped through my fingers. For an athlete, the Olympics are everything. I had trained relentlessly, dedicated my life to this moment, and yet, here I was, second best.

Last night, I was sitting in my flat in London, strumming my old guitar. It's the same one I had back when I was a teenager in that small town in the north. I was just messing around with some chords, nothing serious, when I realized how far I'd come from those days.

I leaned against the counter of my mini-supermarket in Rupal, Pakistan, a small village nestled at the foot of Nanga Parbat. The store buzzed with the sounds of tourists and mountaineers, their excited energy filling the narrow aisles. Business was good—these were the days when shelves emptied quickly, and the till filled with crumpled rupees and foreign bills.

This morning, I arrived at the Palermo Botanical Garden, Italy, just as the gates creaked open. The air was cool, carrying the scent of the sea mixed with damp earth. I made my usual rounds, checking on the plants I’ve come to know like old friends. The Arbutus unedo was looking particularly healthy, its glossy leaves catching the light just so.

I was sitting on the porch, sipping my morning tea, when the sky started to shift from pale blue to a darker, more ominous shade of grey. The radio crackled from the kitchen window, warning of a tropical storm forming to the southeast, but that didn’t bother me much. It was August, after all—hurricane season.

After graduating high school and turning 18, I decided to take some time off before jumping into university or a job. Growing up in Copenhagen, Denmark, I’d always had a curiosity about the world beyond my city’s canals and cobblestone streets. So, with some savings and a sense of adventure, I set out on a few trips with friends.

Every morning, I wake up to the hum of bees. It’s a sound I’ve grown so accustomed to that the silence in the rare moments they’re not buzzing makes me uneasy. The bees and I have a rhythm, a shared purpose, and this land, nestled in the mountains of New Zealand, is where we dance our dance together.

I’ve spent my entire life in Nazaré, Portugal, where the sea has always dictated our days. My father was a fisherman, and so was I, though my heart was never truly in it. I found solace in photography, capturing the rugged beauty of the waves and our small town. One winter, a foreign surfer came across my photos, captivated by the towering waves below the São Miguel Acanjo fortress.