Hi, I’m Emily. Hi, I’m Emily. Welcome to Odisea—a chronicle of what unfolds when you follow your gut into the unknown. After 20 years in marketing, I chose to trade certainty for curiosity and begin creating a life that finally felt like mine. Here, I share stories and photographs from my journey—reflections on creativity, courage, and the quiet process of becoming.

The one thing that stands out to me most about Valparaíso is color. It’s everywhere I look. No wall is untouched—seriously. Art lives on every surface: sides of buildings, retaining walls, construction fences, doors, even stairs—the many, many stairs that carry you from one neighborhood to another.

As I write this, I’m sitting in my hotel’s little restaurant in San Pedro de Atacama, sipping a complimentary glass of sparkling wine after another long tour day. Frank Sinatra is crooning in the background. An older couple two tables away is playing dice, laughing so hard that she snorts. It makes me smile—this small moment of warmth and humanity at the edge of the desert. Cozy. Real. Exactly what I needed after days of early mornings, cold, dry air, and relentless sun—the kind that leaves your lips cracked and your nose rebelling. I’ve been guzzling water just to keep up. Because truthfully, I’m exhausted. Again.

As you drive into Torres del Paine, you’re struck by the sheer grandeur—the otherworldly beauty, the majesty—of the mountains rising before you. Majesty can be defined as impressive beauty, scale, or stateliness. I’d never thought much about the word, other than “your majesty.” But standing there, it felt fitting. These mountains reign over the lakes, the fields, the guanaco, and all of us who have come to witness their quiet command of this landscape.

In Patagonia, our mornings went something like this: the night before, over dinner, our instructor would outline the next day’s plan. There was always a sunrise shoot—because why not? The views off our doorstep were predictably breathtaking, every direction a postcard. The only unpredictable thing was the weather.

As we wrap up our last full day on Rapa Nui, I find myself thinking again about what it might be like to live here. It would be a simple life—one free of the material trappings of American society. Maybe one more balanced—the environment, humans, and animals co-existing comfortably. Respectfully.

The first full day of the Nikon photography workshop began before dawn on Rapa Nui—better known as Easter Island. We woke in the darkness and climbed into the van, headed to Ahu Tongariki to photograph its fifteen Moai statues at sunrise. I don’t normally set an alarm for sunrise. I’ve never been that person. But this time felt different.

Perfection. I’ve chased it my whole life—at work, in relationships, even in the way I communicate. But this journey is teaching me to let go. To see how perfection, instead of fueling confidence, often drains it—and along with it, happiness.

The Castle View is simple, but deeply comfortable—like home. At the entrance, a little sign hangs from the staircase banister: Smile, Giggle, Be Silly. It sets the tone instantly—playful, warm, and welcoming—before you even climb the stairs to your room. For years, I thought I was strictly a “hotel-only” traveler—drawn to the predictability and distance hotels provide. But these sweet B&Bs are changing my mind. I might be a convert.

Last night and this morning, I found myself in an internal struggle—an argument with myself. Yesterday, with sunshine finally breaking through the clouds, I packed it all in. Eight-plus hours on the road, plus two epic hikes—around five miles total—to the Old Man of Storr (my favorite experience so far) and the Quiraing. I crammed in as much as I could to take advantage of the weather gift I’d been given. Grateful? Absolutely. Exhausted? Completely.

While walking through the beautiful woodlands of Glencoe, I breathed in the crisp, clean air, enjoyed the rare warmth of the sun (finally no rain!!!), and savored being outside with nothing to worry about for the next hour or so.

Today I took a day trip from Oban to the Isle of Mull—and then onward to the tiny Isle of Iona. None of it went according to plan—and that turned out to be just right.

Glasgow has been a pleasant surprise—gritty, real, and filled with unexpected beauty. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but compared to Edinburgh, which feels polished and touristy, Glasgow is more lived in. More approachable. Like Oakland is to San Francisco.

I arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland, with no expectations—only the desire to follow the slowly illuminating path I began in 2023. That year revealed what was missing in my life; 2024 brought it into focus. Now here I am: on my first trip within this new life I’m creating—taking the leap into a five-week Scotland journey.