I have a strange travel ritual. Before I research restaurants or museums, I search for races.

A 5K through medieval streets. A half-marathon along a harbor. A charity walk past monuments I can't pronounce. Doesn't matter. If there's one, I'm going. Not to run—God no—but to stand on some random corner in the final quarter of the route and scream my head off for strangers.

Specifically, I scream for Megan.

You don't know Megan. Neither do most of the people I'm screaming for. But stay with me, because this small act of lunacy has become the way I fall in love with cities, with strangers, with the entire ridiculous human project of trying.

And it started completely by accident.

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It was one of those warm end-of-spring days in Ottawa that makes you believe in second chances. The kind where the air smells like hope and lilacs, where you walk past the funky coffee shop by the canal—you know the one that always makes you want to abandon your entire life and just read books forever—and you think: Life is so fleeting. Why do I spend so much time on things that don't matter?

I live a nomadic life. Home for me isn't a place anymore; it's a feeling of connection to the people who briefly inhabit my world before I pack up and leave again. When I'm gone, which is most of the time, I think about how easily I get distracted by the unimportant details—the emails, the errands, the endless small urgencies that feel critical until I'm looking back and realizing none of it mattered at all.

I know this. I know that when I look back, it will be the friendships and the connections that count. And yet.

In my own world, I seem so isolated. Always in my own lane, eyes down, earbuds in, armour up. I've forgotten how to reach for people.

But I didn't know any of this that spring day in Ottawa when my friend Megan asked if I'd come cheer for her at her race. I just said yes, because that's what you do when someone you care about is doing something hard.

You show up.

I stationed myself just past the coffee shop, right where the route curves along the canal. This was strategic: the last quarter, where legs are heaviest, and doubt creeps in like fog, where one more voice might be the difference between keeping pace and walking it in.

Megan had told me she'd be wearing black shorts and a yellow t-shirt. Easy enough to spot, I thought.

I was spectacularly wrong.

As runners streamed past, I realized with growing horror that MANY people were wearing yellow t-shirts and black shorts. The bib numbers were impossible to read until runners were directly in front of me, and by then, it was too late to build up a proper cheer. I stood there, increasingly panicked, as yellow shirt after yellow shirt flowed by.

So I did what seemed reasonable at the time, if slightly unhinged: I started cheering with my whole heart at every yellow t-shirt that came into view.

"Way to go, Megan!"

The runner passed. Definitely not Megan.

Another yellow shirt appeared in the distance.

"WAY TO GO, MEGAN!"

Also not Megan.

"You've got this, Megan!"

Nope.

"Keep it up, Megan!"

Not even close.

The bystanders around me started to notice. Smiles first, then quiet laughter as they watched me pour my entire soul into cheering for person after person who was absolutely, unmistakably not my friend. I could feel my face burning. But I was committed now, and also—I was starting to notice something.

Every single yellow-shirted runner who heard "Way to go, Megan!" responded.

One woman—I can still see her face—looked up with this flash of surprise, like she'd been caught doing something she didn't think anyone was watching. Then you could see it happen: a wave of energy that seemed to rise up from the pavement itself, travelling through her legs, which started to move faster. Into her hips, her core, her arms, which picked up their tempo. And then the smile—this gorgeous, grateful, slightly bewildered smile. She was laughing at my crazy voice, maybe envious of this mysterious Megan who had someone cheering like an absolute lunatic, but somehow buoyed along as the excitement caught her and carried her forward. For the next two hundred yards, she believed in herself again.

Being seen by someone—even a stranger, even mistakenly—allowed her to see that hopeful part of herself.

And here's the thing: the encouragement was contagious.

The other spectators started smiling, then nodding, then leaning forward with more energy in their own cheers. My volleys of misplaced support were creating a ripple effect. Even the non-Megans were benefiting from the force of goodwill. The bystanders were benefiting. It was modelling the behaviour of support, encouraging all of us to actually seeone another.

I kept going, voice getting hoarse, heart getting fuller. "Way to go, ten forty-seven!" "Keep it up, purple t-shirt guy!" "You're doing great, blue cap!"

Then I spotted her.

I recognized Megan instantly—not by her yellow shirt or her black shorts, but by something I couldn't have described if you'd asked me to. How many times had I seen that exact bounce as she came toward me with her cup of coffee? How many times had I watched that precise stride as she crossed the bridge to meet me for a walk? There was no way—just no way—I could have not recognized that tempo, that rhythm, the bounce of her hair, the tilt of her head slightly to the right.

Isn't that something? We know our people by how they move through the world, by patterns we couldn't articulate even if we tried. Love creates a knowledge that bypasses logic entirely. It lives in the body, in recognition that happens before thought.

I started cheering as if my life depended on it.

"MEGAN! MEGAN! WAY TO GO, MEGAN!"

And the most wonderful thing happened: everyone around me joined in.

"WAY TO GO, MEGAN!"

A chorus of strangers, all of us shouting for this one woman none of them knew, all of us caught up in the joy of lifting someone across their finish line. My repeated failures had created something none of us expected—connection, laughter, shared purpose, spontaneous community on a sidewalk by the canal on a warm spring day.

Megan saw me. I saw a huge smile burst across her face. I watched reserves of energy she didn't know she had surface and flood through her body. She waved—this big, sweeping, joyful wave—and I cheered even louder and felt tears spring to my eyes.

In that moment, I understood: this is what I'm here for. Not the emails, the urgencies, or the things I'll forget by next week. This. The seeing and the being seen. The showing up for each other in the hard parts.

How lucky am I to get to cheer for someone? How lucky that she let me in, that she told me about this race, that she wanted me there. How lucky that I said yes.

How lucky are any of us when we remember that this is something we can do?

This has stayed with me.

Now, whenever I'm planning a trip—Prague, Portland, Perth—I check the race schedule before I check anything else. I show up. I station myself in that last quarter, and I cheer with everything I have: "Way to go, Megan!"

I don't know their names. I don't know their stories or their training schedules or why they chose to show up and try today. But I know this: everyone needs someone cheering for them. Everyone deserves to hear their name called out—or a name close enough—when they're in the hard part, when they're not sure they can keep going, when one foot in front of the other feels impossible.

Last month in Barcelona, I watched a man in his sixties slow to nearly a walk. His face was the colour of effort and doubt. "Way to go, Megan!" I shouted, because that's what I do now. He looked up, confused for a split second, then broke into this grin and picked up his pace. Two other spectators joined me. We became his people for those final kilometres, three strangers united in the simple act of giving a damn.

I won't lie—the best part is how I feel leaving. It turns out that feeling in alignment with strangers, raising my voice in unison with a crowd, lifts my mood, my well-being, my want. The encouragement is contagious. It spreads to everyone within earshot, creating little pockets of shared humanity that glow for hours afterward.

Life gets better for everyone when I cheer. Them, yes.

But also me. When did I forget that joy isn't a zero-sum game? That lifting someone else doesn't diminish me—it expands me?

Epiphany.

I've been thinking about why this felt so revolutionary. Maybe it's because I've learned to hoard my enthusiasm, to save my encouragement for people who somehow "deserve" it, to keep my voice down and my heart guarded. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to cheer for people full-heartedly, especially when their success doesn't benefit me at all.

But I'm standing on a sidewalk in Ottawa, in Barcelona, in whatever city comes next, discovering that I can remember. That it's this simple. That changing my world—maybe even the world—might just require showing up, opening my heart, and cheering for all the Megans who are out there trying.

And here's the thing: I want you with me.

I'll be in France this spring, and you can bet I've already found the local race. But you don't need to fly to Provence—find one near you this weekend. I promise you'll feel foolish at first. Your voice will crack, people might look at you funny, and you'll cheer even more wildly. Do it anyway. Maybe I need more foolish love in my life. Maybe you do too.

Station yourself somewhere in that hard part, and cheer. Use whatever name you want—Megan works beautifully, but so does their bib number, their shirt colour, their hat, whatever catches your eye.

Just see them. Just let them know that someone is witnessing their effort, their courage, their ridiculous, beautiful decision to keep going.

Your voice will get hoarse. Your heart will get full. You'll walk away with your own stride a little lighter, wondering why you don't do this every single day.

Way to go, Megan.

Way to go, all of you.

Designing epiphanies,