Lost & Found in Istanbul

A story about panic, memory, and the places we hide things — including ourselves

“You stupid girl. How could you be so careless?”

That’s the first voice that showed up. Sharp. Familiar. Cruel, in that special way only your inner critic knows how to be.

I’d just realized my passport was missing.

Not in my pocket. Not on the desk. Not in any of the go-to zip compartments that muscle memory usually pulls me toward. It was gone — in Istanbul, no less. At 5 a.m. In a country where I didn’t speak the language. My mind started spiraling.

“Maybe someone took it?” “What if I threw it away with the airport trash?” “What if they’re tracking me?” “Oh my God — my organs.”

The logic? Nonexistent. The paranoia? High. The internal dialogue? Fully unhinged.

Scene One: Arrival (a.k.a. the setup for chaos)

Two well-used US passports, ready for the next adventure.

I landed in Istanbul around 3 a.m., running on no charger, no real food, and minimal patience. I was bone-tired — the kind of tired where you start disassociating from reality.

Still, even in that state, the phrase “where’s my passport?” tapped lightly at my thoughts like it always does. Frequent travelers will get it — you don’t wait to need your passport to check it. You just… check. After immigration. After the cab ride. After the airport duty-free run.

I knew I had it at check-in. I remember handing it to the front desk agent. I remember thinking, “don’t forget to get that back.”

I did. Right?

Scene Two: The Search (a.k.a. unraveling)

The next morning, I woke up to that creeping sense of something’s off. 

And I began to search. It wasn’t where it should’ve been.

No big deal, I thought. Let’s retrace my steps.

Down to the front desk. Nothing. Back up to the room. I asked housekeeping if they might’ve seen it or set it aside. No dice.

Okay, breathe. Be logical.

Except my logic had gone on vacation without me. I turned my room into a crime scene:

• Flipped the mattress

• Emptied both suitcases

• Ripped apart packing cubes like they owed me money

Scene Three: The Spiral x2

I pulled Google & Chatty G, as my finger banged against the keyboard, I typed “how to prove you’re American”, "US Embassy in Istanbul", "LOST PASSPORT ABOARD"

Briefly wondered if I should call someone. But who? A proud single woman like myself, expecting a savior whose name isn't Jesus - I think not.

This is how I react in crisis: I don’t cry. I problem-solve. I go full-on survival mode. I don’t ask how I’m feeling. I ask: what’s the next step?

But under the problem-solving… panic was brewing. I knew I hadn’t left the room with the passport again. So, if I hadn’t left the room, where was it?

Scene Four: The Memory

I paused. Sat still. Let the panic have a minute to speak, so I could shut it up again.

That’s when I remembered something: When I was younger — a teenager with no real privacy — I used to hide things under my pillow. It was a protective thing. A small, invisible line drawn between mine and not yours. Sleep was the only time I couldn’t defend what I had, so I learned to bury things under me. Keep them close.

I reached for the hotel pillows, which had found themselves on the floor when I tossed the mattress.

There it was.

My passport. Just… chilling. Tucked in like it had been waiting for me all along.

Scene Five: The Release

I dropped to my knees. Not out of drama — out of sheer, whole-bodied relief. That deep, embarrassing kind of relief that makes you feel foolish and grateful at the same time.

I didn’t cry. I just breathed. Heavily.

Moments after finding my passport

The panic, the anxiety, the self-loathing — they all took a step back. Those emotions felt like old lovers. Familiar. Intimate. But unwanted now. I used to let them hold me. Now, I just nod at them, thank them for their time, and walk away.

The Lesson (because there’s always one)

I didn’t lose my passport. But I did momentarily lose my grip. And honestly? In hindsight, I'm glad it happened. I am the strong friend/sister/daughter/cousin, who's so "emotionally mature" & "resilient". I am not offered the space to break down without facing backlash - I was taught it's more responsible to control your emotions vs. letting them control you. I haven't felt so out of control of my emotions in a very long time. It felt like I took my bra off after a long day. Regulating my feelings is easy, but allowing myself to feel and express those feelings is a soft skill I need to continue developing.

Travel doesn’t always feel empowering. Sometimes it’s disorienting, scary, messy. And sometimes it forces you to reevaluate yourself.

Let’s Talk

Have you ever panicked abroad — or just in life — and somehow pulled yourself back together?

👇 Leave your story in the comments here or on Instagram @thelword.us

Let’s normalize being both brave and messy!