The Journey Home

I first travelled to Mongolia in the autumn of 2018. Its endless grasslands, warm-hearted people, and deep sense of history captivated me from the moment I arrived. I returned twice over the next two years, and with each visit, my attachment to this remarkable land only grew stronger.

In 2024, I found myself back in Mongolia once again, carrying with me the grief of losing both my father and my sister-in-law. During the day, my friends and I drove across the open steppe, laughed together, admired distant snow-capped mountains, shared simple meals of roasted lamb, and watched the sun sink beneath the horizon. For a few precious hours, the vastness of the landscape allowed me to forget the weight I was carrying.

But when night fell and the cold wind swept across the plains, the silence brought everything back.

Thoughts of those I had lost came flooding in. I remembered my father—his face, his quiet encouragement, the lessons he taught me about perseverance when I was young. In those lonely hours, I could almost hear his voice again. Memories we had shared replayed endlessly in my mind.

I thought of my sister-in-law as well. She was never one to seek attention, yet she cared for everyone in the family with quiet devotion. During every festive gathering, she would prepare meals with great care, and she loved my little niece with a tenderness that seemed effortless. Before I realised it, tears were running down my face.

The laughter of the day could never fully conceal the sorrow within me. It was only in the solitude of the night that grief found its voice.

“a memory I can never hear again”

It was on this land—a place that had always brought me immense joy—that I came to understand the true value of family. The stars above Mongolia were no less brilliant. The grasslands stretched to the horizon just as they always had. Yet the world I was looking at was no longer the same, because I was no longer the same person.

On the journey home, my mother's voice came through the phone.

"I've made some soup. It'll be ready when you get back."

It was such an ordinary sentence—one spoken countless times in countless homes. Yet in that moment, I could hear everything behind those words: her love, her concern, and the quiet certainty that someone was waiting for me. My eyes filled with tears before I could say a word.

Whenever I returned from a trip, my father would always ask the same question:

"How was your journey?"

Today, that simple greeting has become a memory I can never hear again. The ordinary conversations we once took for granted have become the things I miss the most.

Losing those we love changes the way we see the world. It teaches us that the greatest gift is often the one we overlook—the chance to hear a familiar voice, to share another meal, or simply to know that someone is waiting for us at home.

Mongolia gave me magnificent landscapes to photograph, but this journey gave me something far more enduring. It reminded me that while every journey eventually comes to an end, the people waiting for us at home are what truly give those journeys meaning.

My mother passed away on 8 March 2026.

Looking back now, I realise that her simple words—"I've made some soup. It'll be ready when you get back."—were never just about a meal. They were about home. And they have become one of the most precious memories I will ever carry with me.