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After experiencing my first heartbreak, a couple’s trip turned into my first ever solo trip to Jamaica, but as they say, the key to getting over a breakup was finding yourself, right? When that Boeing flew over the lush green mountainous terrain into Sangster international, I knew I was in for an adventure. I was met by the familiar trumpets of reggae music, the beeping of busy car horns, and my Aunt Dawn, who after many years of contemplation, decided to build a house in Jamaica. Her health had started to decline while living in the U.K., so she decided the best remedy was vitamin D. I had always grown up considering myself Jamaican. It was hard not to when you grew up the way I did. My identity was always dictated for me, when I was in the U.S. I was British, and when I was in England, I was the American girl, but as a Jamaican, there was no confusion. Being Jamaican was the one identity that I never questioned. It was my culture, I grew up eating cornmeal porridge for breakfast on a Sunday, listening to conversations of my grandparent’s tales of their life in Jamaica before their Windrush journey to the U.K. So when I arrived at Frankfurt airport’s immigration, I was surprised to hear the officer tell me that I was not. The conversation went a little something like this: ‘So, you’re going to Jamaica, when was the last time you went home?’ I answered honestly and told him that I hadn’t been there since I was one year old. ‘You must be so confused, you don’t know your right from your left,’ he responded. I was confused and asked him what he meant, and his response was: ‘I’m talking about not knowing who you are.’ ‘No. I know who I am. I’m Jamaican, that’s my culture.’ I walked away, but I couldn’t shake the thought - would I not be considered Jamaican, by Jamaicans? The first two weeks on the island consisted of visiting miles of white sand and two-toned blue beaches - never tourist locations. We kept it local. Authentic. I had experienced a plethora of magical moments such as seeing a couple exchange vows in an intimate ceremony while collecting shells on the beach, discovered hidden coves, and listened to the intimate thick patois tales of other women’s heartbreak and resilience. I was only asked once if I could understand – which I responded to with confidence in the dialect. I began living with nature in a way I had never done before. The provisions of the earth thrived in the myriad of the flora of my Aunt’s land. For one month, I never needed to visit a grocery store, except for the occasional red stripe, of course. One day, a few members of the local community convened to clear out the trash on the beach and in a local river dam in Westmoreland. This physical and mental cleansing reminded me of what it meant to be a part of something larger than myself. On vacation, it could have been easy to ignore the plastic plaguing the beaches and the wooden road sign banners reminding people to ‘nuh dutty up Jamaica’, but wasn’t that the issue in the first place – the absent-minded attitude of ‘it’s not my problem’? Thanks to us, that river dam became a place to bathe, wash clothes, and fill up bottles of fresh spring water. On the penultimate day of my trip, we decided to attend the Accompong Maroon Festival. This was a cultural celebration that commemorated the 200-year autonomy of the indigenous Maroons after the peace treaty signing with the British, which also paid homage to Colonel Cudjoe – who united the Maroons for their fight of autonomy. Thousands of visitors, and descendants of the Maroons, of which, to much pride discovered I was, stood united, listening to the oral history. At that moment a revelation occurred. My identity as a British-Jamaican woman, raised in the United States, was just that – my identity, and with that, my month-long soul-searching sojourn had come to an end.