Portugal is a poem carved into the earth, its beauty like a deep sigh that lingers in the soul. Riding along the rivers, I found myself enveloped by the glow of golden light spilling over terraced vineyards, the air fragrant with wild lavender and the salt of the Atlantic. The waters of the Douro, ancient and unwavering, whispered stories of resilience and rebirth. Each bend in the river, each ripple of light on its surface, felt like a page from a forgotten book—a tale waiting for me to remember.

This journey wasn’t just an escape; it was a reckoning. A decade ago, my life lay in ashes, a scorched and barren wasteland where dreams once thrived. To be here now, to feel the rhythm of Portugal’s rivers echoing in my chest, was to confront the quiet miracle of my own survival. The cobblestones of Lisbon, polished by centuries of footsteps, spoke of a city that has risen from ruin more times than I could count, each time stronger, each time more beautiful. And as I pedaled along the rivers, through villages draped in bougainvillea and guarded by timeworn castles, I felt the walls around my heart crumble, replaced by a fragile but fierce kind of hope.

Portugal held me in its embrace like a long-lost friend, its beauty demanding not just to be seen but to be felt, to be carried deep into the marrow. Each sunset bleeding into the horizon was a reminder that endings can be stunning too, that destruction is the first step to creation. This wasn’t just an adventure; it was an awakening. Every reflection in the water, every note of Fado that pierced the air, reminded me of what I’d forgotten: that the soul, like this land, can endure the unendurable and still rise with grace. In Portugal, I wasn’t just riding rivers—I was flowing back into myself.