The wind whipped my face as I clutched my coat closer to my chest in a futile attempt to get warm. Still dark outside, I scanned the empty Amsterdam street hoping the bus that’s supposed to arrive turns down the road. There’s no one around, and the only confirmation I have is an online bus ticket with the coordinates for pick-up. It’s 5:15 AM and I question why I decided to book a 28-hour bus ride across Europe, from the Netherlands to Bosnia, a country I have never been to and only recently heard of. I’m too tired and cold at this time to be excited – only nervous and regretful.
The bus did arrive, and I did sit, sleep, read, journal, and stare out the window as the German, Austrian, Slovenian, and Croatian landscapes passed slowly by. My phone lost service and I always had slight anxiety that this bus might not be going where I hoped it would. No one spoke English, and I had no idea where I was. I was meeting someone in Sarajevo, but I wasn’t even sure which stop to get off at.
This was a time when I was in my “discomfort zone.” We are usually in one of three zones: the “comfort zone,” the “discomfort zone,” and the “alarm zone.”
The comfort zone is where we feel safe and happy.
