I've visited 20 countries, lived in 2 (or is it 4? Does 6 weeks in Turkey count? How about 2 months in Bulgaria? Probably not, but they feel like more than a visit), and on every trip, I bring myself along.
It's an obvious observation but still one I have to make. I'm still me, and I'll be the same person in Bulgaria as I was in Ukraine and as I was in the States. London Autumn has the same insecurities as Bratislava Autumn. No number of miles travelled will take me away from me.
Of course I've grown, at least to the degree a twenty-something reasonably can. I swing back and forth between pride of what I've accomplished and shame over how much I still need to improve. But there's some kind of core within a person that doesn't change.
It's tempting to view my time in Sofia as a stepping stone: I'll be happy once I can go home/once I find a more permanent place/once I stop wandering about. Much as I want to believe it, it's not true. It's not that I dislike Bulgaria; I dislike that temporary feeling. I've spent a lot of my life thus far waiting, probably a larger percentage than feeling settled.
I tend to like my name, though it bothered me as a kid that Autumn has connotations of both harvest and death. Maturity and end of the road. Seasonality bothers me. I want permanence, security, safety, a nest to call my own. I don't think these are outlandish desires, but they are limited.
Most of life happens in transit.