I have a confession.
I just got my first passport stamp — and I’m still kind of floating.
For the first time ever, I got on a plane and left the country. For some, that’s a box they checked years ago. For me, a girl who’s mostly spent her life in the passenger seat of a car (or behind the wheel of one, with the GPS always saying “recalculating”), it was a huge step. I’ve only ever traveled to California without my parents — and even that was just to visit Passenger Prince. Does that even count?
This was different.
This time, I boarded a plane without my parents, without a familiar itinerary or anyone holding my hand — and landed somewhere that felt like a dream: Costa Rica. It was a school trip, yes. But for me, it was a whole reset button on what I thought I knew about the world and myself.
And I didn’t do it alone. I had two girls by my side who made everything softer, funnier, and far more chaotic in the best possible way. I call them Sunshine and Navy.
I’d never traveled with either of them before. They’re not even from where I’m from — just girls who ended up in the same city, the same school or the same little circle of this universe at the same time as me. And yet, somewhere between shared snacks on humid hikes, whispered secrets on top bunks, and laughing hysterically while trying to swat mosquitos in sync, they became home.
That’s the thing about traveling — especially when you’re far from home and out of your comfort zone. You bond fast. You skip the small talk and dive into “What do you want to do with your life?” conversations while waiting in line for empanadas. You find yourself sitting in the dark with someone who was a stranger a few days ago, talking about heartbreak and healing and how weird it is that your ex still watches your Instagram stories.
The connection just…happens. Like magic.
Sunshine — that’s what I call her. The girl with the easy smile and a spark tucked behind her lashes. She’s sweet in that way that sneaks up on you, the kind of quiet that isn’t shy, just observant — until she starts talking. Then you’re doubled over laughing before you even know what hit you. She brings the fun without forcing it, like the sun peeking out when you’d already settled into the rain. Every group needs a Sunshine — someone who makes things feel light just by being there, who doesn’t need to be loud to fill the space with joy.
And then there’s Navy. Sharp-minded, sharp-witted and sharper still with a pen in her hand. She’s the one always chasing the perfect sentence or framing the perfect shot, blue eyes scanning the scene like she’s already editing it in her head. Navy’s funny in that blink-and-you-miss-it way — dry, clever and just enough to catch you off guard. She’s focused, the one you trust to hold it all together when things get chaotic. Every group needs a Navy — someone steady, someone thoughtful, someone who reminds you there’s beauty in being fully present.
And it wasn’t just the girls. There were new friends everywhere. People who shared their playlists and their snacks. People who helped each other translate signs and told stories late into the night like we’d all known each other forever. I think that’s what I’ll remember most — the friendships. Not the perfect photo ops or the souvenirs or the jungle Instagram posts. But the conversations. The laughter. The weird inside jokes that wouldn’t make sense anywhere else but meant everything there.
Also, language. We have to talk about it.
So many of the people we met in Costa Rica spoke more than one language — not just English and Spanish, but sometimes three or four. It made me realize how boxed in we are back home. In the States, we treat being bilingual like an optional skill, something you might choose to do, when in other places it’s just part of how you grow up. And honestly? That bugs me.
We call ourselves a melting pot, but most Americans barely know how to stir the pot in more than one language. If words are power — and I fully believe they are (hello, you’re reading mine right now) — then why aren’t we taking language more seriously?
Being immersed in a place where I didn’t know all the words made me want to learn. Not just for travel, but to connect. To understand. To not always be the loudest voice in the room, but the one most willing to listen.
Oh — and the rainforest? Gorgeous. Wild. Humid. Terrifying at times (have you ever made eye contact with a howler monkey?!), but also peaceful in a way I didn’t expect. The humidity turned my hair into a puffy, tangled mess and my skin into a whole new texture, but I loved it anyway. I loved waking up to birds I couldn’t name. I loved the way the sky never looked the same two days in a row. I loved not checking my phone and actually being somewhere.
I finally understand the whole “you have to travel abroad” thing. Not because of the places themselves — though yes, Costa Rica is stunning — but because of how it shakes something loose inside you. Something you didn’t even know needed to be shaken. I feel braver, lighter. Like I’ve just remembered a part of myself I forgot existed.
And now I’ve got the travel bug.
Not just the “I want to see more places” version, but the “I want to meet more people, eat more weird fruits and say yes to things that scare me a little” version. I want more nights like the ones we had in Costa Rica — warm air, soft music and someone handing you a cookie they swore was the best in the country (they weren’t wrong).
And while I definitely have thoughts on traveling with friends — because yes, shared bathrooms, delayed flights and being around someone 24/7 will bring out some stuff — that’s for another column.
For now, I just want to hold onto this one: the first trip. The one where I left the country, said yes and came back a little changed.
Thanks, Costa Rica. And thank you, Navy and Sunshine. You’ll always be my first passport people.
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff.
